


It Sings Softly, Sinisterly

by SadBlooky



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: A lil bit of cute, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Grey Wardens, Healthy Relationships, Infertility, King Alistair (Dragon Age), King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Married Couple, Married Life, Pregnancy, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Calling (Dragon Age), The Taint (Dragon Age), Warden Queen (Dragon Age), a lil bit of angst, ft a Good Boy that deserves lots of pets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadBlooky/pseuds/SadBlooky
Summary: With the end of the Fifth Blight years behind them, King Alistair and his beloved Queen Sibyl now are focused on trying to balance ruling a kingdom with maintaining a happy marriage. Though their days fighting darkspawn are far behind them, they can't ignore the Calling, that sweet, sickening song that eventually drives all Grey Wardens mad. But Sibyl and Alistair believe they've found their happy ending, and it's going to take more than a little music to come between this royal liaison.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. A New Self-Portrait

“And just where did you see this darkspawn-like figure, mister…?”

“Binkley, Your Highness,” the small man said, hastily removing his hat as if just now realizing he was addressing the king of Ferelden. He fiddled with the brim of his hat, eyes wide as he recalled that, in his hurry, he had failed to bow and immediately tried to do so. Once he had straightened back up, he continued, “It was in me fields, Your Highness.”

“And it was alone?” Alistair asked as he shifted forward in his throne.

The man nodded earnestly, fear evident in his voice as he stammered, “Y-yes, Your Highness. All in its lonesome. I knew it was one because I fought in the Fifth Blight, I did. Right here in Redcliffe, I did. I can spot one of those filthy blighters from a mile away, I can.” Realizing he was speaking rather informally, he sputtered one last “sir” before waiting for a response.

“I see. Well, the queen and I thank you for your service,” Alistair said with a nod. Sibyl nodded as well, her smile polite if not a little pitying of the man that stood before them. With his size and mannerisms, she figured he had been fighting his receding hairline more than the darkspawn. “Darkspawn sightings are rare these days, and especially on their own. What was it doing, exactly?”

“Stealing a cow.”

“Stealing? Not… eating?” Alistair inquired, a pale brow raising in confusion. 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And you’re certain that it was a darkspawn?”

“Yes, Your Highness, it told me so, it did.”

Sibyl sent her husband a sidelong glance, then hid a smile behind her hand at the sight of his gaping mouth.

“It… told you so?” Alistair slumped back into his chair, suddenly looking very tired.

“I asked it meself. I called out to it, ‘are you a darkspawn?’ and it said yes, it did. I thought I would be careful and ask before I chased it off. I’m no Grey Warden like Your Highnesses, see. I wanted to be smart about it.”

Alistair rubbed his face with his hand before pinching the bridge of his nose, a gesture that had become quite common over his past seven years as ruler. “Ah, yes, of course. It spoke. Did you hear that, my dear? It spoke to him.”

Sibyl smiled and placed her hand on top of his, wrapping her fingers around it and giving it a gentle squeeze. It had been a long day, between her morning sickness and all the Fereldans that had appeared in court to voice issues that varied greatly in their significance. He met her gaze and his face softened as he returned her smile. When she looked at him like this, he couldn’t help but be taken back to a different time. A time when the lines of stress had yet to etch themselves on their faces, when he had been so nervous around her that the rose he had picked for her had stayed in his bag for a week.

Now, they were practically inseparable. They had grown with each other through the Blight and into adulthood. Neither of them knew what they were doing, sitting so high above the people they had once rushed into battle with. But Alistair had his queen, and Sibyl, her king. The weight of the world was more manageable when it was borne by two sets of shoulders.

She could tell that there was laughter behind his eyes as he pondered how exactly to respond. Trying to maintain decorum, she returned her focus to the man with lips drawn tight in her attempt at a serious expression. 

Alistair opened his mouth to speak again, only to sputter in shock when Binkley turned to directly address Sibyl. “Please help me, Warden-Commander. I wouldn’t go to nobody else for darkspawn trouble.”

“And what did I do during the Blight, sit around and knit socks?” Alistair whined under his breath.

“The king and I are greatly sorry for your loss,” Sibyl said with the most genuine smile she could muster. “We know times are tough without the trouble of darkspawn raids or… the like.” She nodded to one of the guardsmen that had accompanied him into the throne room. “Make sure this man is compensated for his lost cow, and station a guard around his area to assure that this thievery doesn’t repeat itself.”

“Oh! Bless you, mum! Bless you both!”

As the guard grabbed him by the arm to lead him out, Alistair called out, if not for any reason other than to get the last word, “Oh, and Mr. Binkley, rather than calling out to suspicious, threatening figures, I would suggest calling upon our guard instead. Most darkspawn might not be as friendly as the one you encountered.”

He nodded vigorously. “Yes, Your Highness. Very wise, Your Highness. Maker bless you!” He continued to offer various praises and exclamations of faith before he disappeared behind a large, wooden door. It was then that the two could finally remove their carefully painted smiles and forgo formality for just a brief moment of genuine amusement.

Alistair let out a loud groan and buried his head in his hands, his words to Sibyl muffled by his fingers. “We really should hire someone to vet these people before they come in. Between this and the man with the talking druffalo, I’m starting to wonder about the state of this kingdom.”

“I’ve no idea why we’re trying to add to it,” Sibyl quipped, a hand moving to her stomach absent-mindedly. 

“Quite silly of us, really. You would think after years of trying, we’d have figured it was just the Maker telling us, ‘Nope. Bad idea.’” He placed a hand on top of hers before pressing a ginger kiss on her forehead. “Besides. Me? A father? Whoever thought that was a good idea must have been the same person who vouched for this crown on my head. Oh wait.” 

She could hear panic fraying the ends of his humorous tone and sent him a reassuring look. “You would be an incredible father, Alistair.” She hadn’t told him about her pregnancy yet; truthfully, she was afraid she would end up disappointing the both of them again. 

“Aww, you’re so kind to lie to me, my dear,” He teased as he stood up and stretched out his back. He made a face as his spine popped, then added offhandedly, “You would think these chairs would be more comfortable, considering how long they have to be sat in.”

“Not to mention who has to sit in them.” Sibyl stood up as well and accepted his hand as he guided her down the raised platform upon which the thrones perched. 

“Now,” he posited as they exited the throne room into the hallway, “if they were too comfortable, that wouldn’t do either. I would never want to leave. Then I would get all mushy.” A guard approached as if to tell him that there were more people waiting to be heard, but Alistair dismissed him with a wave. He had been doing this more and more recently, Sibyl noticed. It was as if he were losing the patience or even simply the interest to participate in such things. She tried to alleviate this perceived boredom with humor whenever she could, though it didn’t require much effort.

“Ah yes,” she said, nodding in acknowledgement of the guards who opened the doors to the king’s study for them, “because all the people really want in a king is a toned arse.” 

The two froze as the doors revealed a set of older gentlemen sitting around a table expectantly, perfectly within earshot of their conversation. Sibyl’s eyes grew wide and her face flushed in embarrassment; this wasn’t the first time she had forgotten the expectations that came with her status. Even in their own -- admittedly massive -- home, there seemed to be no place for private conversation.

Luckily, Alistair quickly responded. “Toad farce?” he exclaimed incredulously. “My dear wife, what silly things you say. I would never joke about such matters. Frogs, perhaps, but never toads. Now, I have a very important meeting, apparently.” He added the last word through closed teeth so that only she could hear.

She wiped the surprised look from her face in favor of a polite smile at his advisors. Though his words were dripping with sarcasm, she could see the panic in his wide-eyed stare. Awkwardly, she curtsied and hastily exited the room. She waited until she got to their chambers and had sat down at her desk to burst into a fit of laughter. 

  
  


She awoke when she heard the door swing open and then promptly slam shut. Her head shot up from the desk where she had been reading as her reflexes kicked in. She was on her feet with a letter opener pointed at Alistair’s head before he had even turned around to face her. 

“Easy, Warden-Commander, it’s just your husband. Remember me?”

She sent him a sheepish grin before tossing the weapon back onto the desk and moving to stand beside him. “Sorry, old habits die hard, I guess. Spending a year in a tent while the Blight is going on will do that to you.” She reached out a hand to touch him only to be shrugged off as he moved away. “Alistair?” she asked quietly but didn’t attempt to follow him. When he didn’t say anything, she prompted him. “Did something happen?”

Sibyl could tell that he was anxious by the way he paced back and forth, aggressive fingers tearing through his hair and scratching at his light dusting of stubble. He certainly had something to say, he just hadn’t formulated the words yet. She bit her lip as she watched him, concerned that he might be working himself up into a panic attack. When he began mumbling incoherently, she quickly went to his side and tried to grab him by the arms.

“Darling, it’s okay. Try to talk about something else first. Take a deep breath.” Angry as he was, he somehow was able to meet her gaze and even breathe with her. His wild, brown eyes started to focus on her face, and the sight of her was enough to quell his immediate anxiety. 

He was able to produce a strained smile before gulping and ducking out of her grasp. “So,” he began, “what have you been reading? I see you’ve acquired some, uh, new literature.” He nodded over towards the stacks of thick, leather bound books that crowded her desk.

“Oh,” her voice lightened at the subject change, “well, actually I’ve developed some interest in the Calling. I know that’s a bit morbid, but I feel like doing some research would help us better prepare for--”

“I’m a joke, Sibyl. An absolute joke of a king.” He sent her a glare before he added, “A farce, if you will.”

She folded her arms across her chest in an expression of disbelief. “Surely, you don’t actually believe that? You’re a great--”

“A great what? A great fool? A great bastard son who accidentally filled a role that was never meant for him? They don’t take me seriously. Do you want to know what happened when you left, Sibyl? They all gave each other this  _ look _ .” He was pacing again. “Like, a ‘why are we taking orders from this absolute buffoon of a man’ look. Do you know how it feels, Sibyl, to be looked down upon like that? I don’t mean to sound uppity, but I feel like I’m in a position where that shouldn’t normally happen. I’m the bloody king, for Maker’s sake!”

“People respect you, Alistair--”

“Which people, exactly?”

“Me. Every person you helped save from the Blight. I don’t know, Edgar, probably.” When the mabari heard his name, he perked up his ears and sat up in his bed. At the lack of immediate danger, he let out a huff and circled around himself before laying back down to stare up at the two of them with his head on his paws.

Alistair shook his head before plopping down on their bed with a sigh of resignation. He massaged his temples for a moment before speaking to her without meeting her eyes. “I never wanted this. I don’t want this now. This isn’t who I am.”

Sibyl opened her mouth then closed it again. It wasn’t the first time that she had wondered if truly, deep down, he resented her for supporting him over Anora as king. He would never say so out loud, but sometimes, like when he returned from a particularly grueling meeting or ceremony, the look in his eyes would be different. The warmth would be gone, if only for a moment, when he would look at her. It would come back -- it always did -- but in that brief instant, Sibyl would lose the will to breathe. 

He looked up in surprise when she opened their bedroom door and began walking out. “Come now, let’s go for a walk.”

“Sib, do you know what time it is?” he glanced in bewilderment at the large grandfather clock looming by the fireplace. 

Sibyl rolled her eyes. “What? It’s not like you would be able to sleep anyway.”

Alistair hated it when she was right. Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet and lumbered after her through the door and down the hall. He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt much older than his wife. He watched the frills of her nightgown glide across the floor, unbound dark curls bouncing and swinging on her back. Maybe it wasn’t that he was old, he thought, rather that she was just older than she appeared. The Taint was supposed to age Wardens faster, in accordance with their shortened lifespan, but it never seemed to touch her. Her eyes were bright when she turned to smile at him, her wide mouth curling into warm, rounded cheeks. The flames from the wall scones caused shadows to dance across her face as if they, too, danced with the silent music she produced wherever she went. 

He had been so enraptured by her that he hadn’t noticed where she had been leading again. “The portrait hall? Come to make fun of old cousin Durwad again?”

She made a face at him over her shoulder as she chuckled. “No. But come on, you have to admit the painter must’ve had it out for the poor man. Just look at his forehead!” 

“While I concede that, yes, you could probably land a dragon on there, I don’t see how that’s supposed to cheer me up.”

Sibyl shook her head and took his hand within hers, tugging him further down the hallway. Despite himself, his mouth started to quirk up as he glanced down at their interwoven fingers. When was the last time she had held his hand? Married for how many years? and Alistair had nearly forgotten the sensation. Yes, they were still intimate with each other, but not often like this. In this innocent way, timid touches and sheepish grins, that fondly reminded him of a time not so long ago. For a brief moment, he ached for the man he had been. 

“Oh how philosophical of you, taking me to stare at my dead father,” he said dryly as they slowed in front of a massive painting of the late King Maric. He unwound his hand from hers and it dropped to his side lamely. Posing with an elaborate sword, unbound blonde hair falling around his shoulders like the satin of his robes, Maric looked more legendary than paternal. Alistair didn’t fail to note as much as he stared with an expression that contained more awe than admiration. “I wonder what he would say, knowing his real son was dead and his bastard one had swiped the throne from underneath him. Would he laugh?” His dark eyes flitted to the hardness of his father’s jaw beneath his beard, to the look of stoic consternation he bore as he glowered down at him. “No,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t think he would.”

He didn’t move when Sibyl placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re his real son, too, Alistair. You have just as much a part of him as Cailan did,” she said quietly, her gaze traveling to the portrait of his deceased brother hanging next to Maric. 

“The only difference being he actually wanted one of us in his life. He raised my brother to be king, taught him propriety and decorum and how to make negotiations and… and…” He trailed off as he moved to stand in front of his half-brother. He couldn’t help but feel tears well in his eyes as he regarded him. A man who was nearly a mirror image of himself, whose visage would never again change from that soft, stoic smile he wore in his portrait. What right did Alistair have to be here, standing on the other side? 

“It should be me, up on a wall somewhere. Not him. He shouldn’t have… we could’ve done something. Anything. What Maker would create this reality? One with a sick sense of humor. I mean, not even the Templars wanted me. The only reason I even became a Grey Warden was because Duncan was desperate.” Sibyl knew that this wasn’t true, but she allowed him to continue. “All I will ever be is his shadow,” Alistair rasped. “The only part of him that I share is his name.” He rubbed his face in his trembling hands. There was a reason he avoided this part of the castle.

Sibyl wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her head on his shoulder as he spoke, shaking her head against him as his frame began to quiver with despair. “Oh, my love,” she murmured into his shirt, “if only you could see yourself as I do.” Gingerly, she turned him so that they faced the hall’s most recent addition. 

It was a portrait of Alistair sitting in a plush, red velvet chair. He sat towards the front edge, his back stiff as if he weren’t quite comfortable. His face, however, radiated with the same amount of confidence as his predecessors. Though it was a different kind of confidence, a somber kind, that came from seeing all of the worst the world could offer. A confidence that he had already handled the ugliest bits life could throw at him. There was a pleasantness in his features, though, that caused his amber eyes to appear as if they held a secret smile. Maybe it was the remnant of the smugness he had during the time of the painting, when he had commanded the relenting artist to include his new wife in his picture. Alistair had never cared much for precedent, and he had insisted that Sibyl would make the painting “easier on the eyes.” She wasn’t so certain of that herself, yet there she stood, behind his chair. Her dark hair hung in a long plait over her shoulder and a tiara with glittering sapphires adorned her head. Though she looked a little older now, and her hair a little shorter, she still gazed at her husband with the same adoring expression.

“When I look at that king up there, I see someone just as regal and wise as those that came before him. But do you know what I also see, Alistair? A good man. A just man. A compassionate and merciful ruler.” He met her gaze with a watery smile, his eyes brighter than she had seen them in a long time. He reached up to cup her cheek in his palm, his hand ghosting over her waist as he pulled her into an embrace. Her warmth breath fanned over his neck as she sighed before she spoke again.

“And…” She seemed hesitant to finish. Alistair pulled away slightly to give her an inquisitive look. “The father of my child.”

It took him a moment to fully comprehend what Sibyl had just implied, but when he did, she couldn’t help but giggle at his expression. She swore he lost ten years from his face as he practically jumped up and down with excitement. Before she knew it, he had picked her up and spun her around, hugging her so tight she had to call out his name in protest.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry,” he hastily apologized before setting her down and mirroring her smile once again. Then he frowned before looking her up and down skeptically. “You’re sure? I know we’ve had some, erm, false alarms in the past.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He let out a huge breath before pulling her back into his arms. She could feel his heartbeat pounding against her chest as if it were her own. Maybe it was? She was just as nervous and excited as he was.

“And… it’s safe? You’ll be alright?” He hadn’t heard of any Grey Wardens bearing children; this was either because it was next-to-impossible or because, on the off chance a pregnancy did occur, it was quickly terminated out of fear of what a womb tainted with darkspawn blood would create.

“We can’t be certain of that. We can’t really be certain of anything,” she whispered. “But all I know is that we must try.” Even Sibyl knew that the great deeds of a king meant nothing if there was no bloodline to carry on his legacy.

“I nearly lost you once, Sib, I’ll not risk it a second time,” he said, his mind drifting to her sword as it slid through the massive neck of the Archdemon. He remembered being nauseous as he watched her, suddenly frozen in his boots. It had been both the first and the last time he had prayed for Morrigan to be right.

She smiled at him, hoping the dim lighting masked the doubt that lurked behind her features. “You won’t lose me, I promise. Now, let’s get back to bed.” She glanced down at her bare feet, practically shining against the dark stone flooring. “My toes are nearly frostbitten!”

“Fear not, my queen!” Alistair cried out, then whisked her up in his arms with a flourish. He sent her a flirtatious smirk. “I will warm you, starting with your toes and finishing… elsewhere.” She couldn’t help but snort as he wiggled his eyebrows.

“You know,” she remarked as they started back to their room, “I’m glad to see kinghood hasn’t changed you.”

“No, my dear. At least, not in the ways that matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks for taking the time to read! I will try to be updating on a fairly regular schedule. Please feel free to comment if there's anything you'd like to see; this story is pretty non-linear and I feel like it'd be neat to try and incorporate requests into it. Cheers!


	2. The Courtesy Call

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alistair. Give me back my shoe,” Sibyl said with a sigh as she reached for the object of interest, which her husband was now dangling far above her head. “Surely you don’t expect me to lay in bed with the curtains drawn for eight more months.”

Alistair shook his head resolutely then moved the boot behind his back. “Surely  _ you _ weren’t expecting to just waltz out without a word, were you?”

“I left a note,” Sibyl mumbled, temporarily halting her exertions to give him a sheepish grin. “Look, are you surprised? I knew this was how you were going to react. It’s just a meeting. Strictly business, no messy bits this time.”

Alistair’s eyes hurt after how hard he rolled them. “So your sword’s for what, chopping your potatoes?”

“You don’t chop potatoes; you peel them.”

He ignored her. “And that suit of armor you’re wearing? What’s that for?”

“It’s got enough room for me to carry all the potatoes I’ll apparently be chopping.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed in challenge before he suddenly whirled around and threw her shoe at Edgar, who had, until now, been sleeping peacefully by their fireplace. “Quick,” Alistair barked as the object bounced off his head and he looked up sleepily, “take it and run! Go as far as you can. Go on!” Edgar, still blinking sleep from his eyes, merely glanced at the shoe before snorting dismissively and resting his head back on his massive paws. “You were a lot more helpful during the Blight, you know that?” he grumbled offhandedly. 

Sibyl saw her opportunity and, before Alistair could even blink, she was running towards Edgar with hands outstretched in preparation to dive. With a great clatter, she flung herself to the ground and was able to grab her boot before she felt arms wrap around her waist. Then, the Hero of Ferelden, savior of the Fifth Blight, squealed like a little girl as Alistair picked her up and spun her around.

It had been a long time since Sibyl had donned her armor, and Alistair had nearly forgotten how to maneuver around the hard, steely bits. She squirmed in protest as he brought his lips to her ear to whisper, “Gotcha.” He felt her breath hitch in her throat as he playfully nibbled on it, then pulled her closer towards him. She was less wiggly now, he noted with an inward smirk, though she was still holding onto her shoe as if it were something sacred. His mouth traveled down to her neck, planting kisses against her flushed skin while his hands worked their way to the straps of her armor. 

Her chest swelled and sank as she sighed, then dropped her head back into his shoulder as if in resignation. “I have to say, you’ve become quite the adept at persuasion,” she murmured with eyes half-closed.

“Think about all you’ll miss if you leave,” he hummed.

“I’m not sure I’ll entirely miss all the paperwork and general uppityness. Think it would do me some good to leave, don’t you?” she teased.

“Uh, hello? Are you not going to miss me, your darling husband?”

He felt rather than saw her energy shift and he released his grip so that she could face him. Her eyes were downcast as she shrugged. “It’s not as if I get to see much of my darling husband, regardless.” When she saw the concern spread across his features she hastily added, “You’re just so busy. You have a lot of responsibility, I understand. Which is why I was hoping to have some more responsibilities of my own. I’m your queen, always,” she spoke slowly as she dropped the boot in exchange for his hands. “But I’m also the Warden-Commander. The people here need you, but the people out there need me.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she spoke again. “Which is why I was hoping you would understand, and you wouldn’t keep me from going--” 

She trailed off when she saw Alistair shake his head. Despite the sadness in his gaze, he was smiling. “Of course, I understand. And under different circumstances, I would be supportive of your mission. But, Sibyl, we have more than just the two of us to think about now,” he said softly, his eyes drifting towards her abdomen. 

She nodded thoughtfully, though a frown now darkened her face. “Come with me, then,” she said suddenly, the frown dissipating momentarily as she regarded him. “If you’re that worried about me, why not just come and assure my safety? It’ll be just like old times!”

He chuckled at her excitement, but really he was touched. All these years, and she still wanted to go adventuring with him as if they were still just a couple of Grey Wardens. But he was more than the man he had been, nearly a decade ago, now, and he knew it. He was tied to both his wife and his crown, and oftentimes they pulled him in opposite directions. 

“Now’s not really a great time. I have to hold court, and I have that meeting with the diplomat I told you about, and Orlais is… still Orlais.” He paused before adding, rather awkwardly, “I could send someone with you?”

Her smile was sad. “A bodyguard? I don’t need a bodyguard, I need my husband. But, seeing as you have more pressing matters...” She trailed off as if stopping herself from saying something harsh. “It’s no worry. I told you it was a minor meeting, a courtesy call, really. There shouldn’t be any trouble.” She put her boot on and stood up straight, pulling her hand to her brow in a stiff salute before smirking and starting towards the door. “If that’s all, I really must be on my way. I’ll be back in three days time, my king.”

“And if you’re not?”

She winked at him. “Then keep waiting. Goodbye, Alistair,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared behind the door. 

Alistair, resigned, slumped against the bed frame. When he heard a low whistle from the other side of the door, he perked up only to realize that she had been calling Edgar. The loyal hound, suddenly filled with purpose, immediately roused itself from his snooze and trotted off. At least he would offer some protection, should she need it. He prayed she would not.

Once he had gathered himself, the king exited his chambers and trudged down the hallway as if his boots were fashioned out of lead. Ineffective as they were, his feet still managed to take him to his study. He mumbled in annoyance at the dreariness of the place, lighting a few candles on his way to his desk despite it being morning. 

He sat down and began to rifle through the day’s paperwork in an attempt to ignore the sound of hoofsteps outside.  _ That could be her, leaving for the final time. _ The thought entered his head and it took the remainder of his mental strength to shove it away. Nervous fingers rapped on the polished mahogany. His eyes strained to focus on the scrawling ink across the parchment, to glean any ounce of information without darting up to the desk’s empty corner where she used to sit. She would come and visit him throughout days when his duties confined him. Sometimes she would bring him food, other times she would come to talk, though more often than not, she would come in silently and just read a book. In the beginning, he had suggested she find a chair for comfort’s sake, but she had said she was just fine thank you, and joked that he had always wanted a desk with a better view. 

And so the two would sit, sometimes for hours at a time. Each other’s presence, even in silence, was enough to abate the loneliness their sort of lifestyle inevitably brought with it. If he concentrated, he could still catch a whiff of her scent in the air. Honeysuckle.

How could he just have let her leave? “What a great fool you are, Alistair,” he grumbled to himself. 

When a knock sounded on his door, he lifted his face from his hands to call out in a gravelly voice, “What is it?”

“Your Majesty,” the voice of a servant sounded from the other side, “Ambassador de Montfort, of Orlais.”

Alistair groaned inwardly as his face dropped back into his palms. What was he doing? “Send him in. I guess,” he added under his breath. 

Sibyl tried to focus on the path in front of her despite how her muscles ached to pull the horse around and race back to the castle. Her knuckles were white against the reigns, her teeth pulling on her bottom lip, and yet her mount carried her onward. Edgar, on the other hand, was as content as he had been in months. The fresh air energized him, and he trotted alongside Sibyl, keeping pace despite the layer of fat he had gained over the years of being the queen’s mabari. 

She knew she was selfish for thinking he could just drop everything and come with her. Perhaps it had been selfish of her to want to leave at all; she knew what was at stake. This child meant that the kingdom would be secure, that her husband would no longer have any doubts about her validity as queen. It was her selfish desire to be by his side that could have cost him his kingdom, and she had far from forgotten this. 

Her hand hovered above her stomach, as if scared to touch her child even behind a layer of heavy armor. She allowed her mind to wander, just for a moment, on what their child might look like. Would she be a girl, with the dark hair of her mother and the amber eyes of her father? Or perhaps he will be a giggling baby boy with his mother’s visage and his father’s sweet temperament? Would Sibyl be able to protect them? Would she give up her life for them, as did her own parents? Or would they give up their life for her and her careless yearning for adventure? 

She let out a gasp, yanking her horses reigns back abruptly as the thought grounded her. Suddenly feeling very dizzy, she started to turn around only to freeze when the sound of galloping reached her ears. Edgar whirled around to stare behind them at the long road that led back to Denerim. A wave of nausea passed over her as her hand moved to the hilt of her sword. With a sharp word to Edgar and a tug on her horse, she tore off into the woods beside the road. She had fought much worse than whatever was coming her way, she was sure, but the places her mind traveled to were too dark to yield any rational reaction. 

Even though the sun shone high in the sky, the massive trees soon proved a boon for Sibyl’s eyesight as she sank deeper and deeper into the woods. The horse fared better than her; it saw the fallen tree that blocked their path before Sibyl did, and its sudden jump found her flying out of the saddle and onto the mossy earth. 

Stunned and out of breath, she struggled to her feet by holding onto a tree. How abnormal this darkness was came to her attention around the same time as the sickening song in her head. She cursed inwardly as she unsheathed her sword. Perhaps they hadn’t sensed her yet? Though, judging from the frightened screams of her now-faraway horse, they were close and thirsting for blood. 

Completely disoriented and terrified, Sibyl began heading in whatever direction made the noise in her head quieten. When she felt brave enough, she loudly whispered for Edgar. Froze. Then listened for heavy paws bounding towards her. She waited until the volume of the darkspawn grew before begrudgingly continuing without her beloved pet. It seemed neither of their eyes were working very well right now. 

She took off in the direction of what she hoped was the road as fast as she could without producing sound. As the distance between her and the noise behind her became shorter and shorter she was forced to break into a sprint. There were at least a dozen of them, which would have been difficult enough in her prime, and Sibyl was definitely out of practice. 

She was sprinting now, and it wasn’t going to be enough. The tears in her eyes impeded her vision almost as much as the darkness. They were gaining on her. “You’re such a fool,” she managed to gasp out between heaving breaths as she barreled through a grove of bushes she was certain she had already passed. She was going to die, her child alongside her. It was all her fault.

Then something grabbed at her arm. It was too late.

Desperate and enraged, she let out a yell as she grabbed the hand of the creature that had her within its grasp and wrenched herself free. Then, with it still in her clutch, she used all that remained of her might to flip her pursuer over and onto the ground in front of her. 

Before Alistair could even make a noise, she had her foot on his chest and her blade pressed to his throat. They blinked at each other in shock, neither moving for a few moments before he used two careful fingers to push her sword away from his flesh.

“I would be impressed if I weren’t so incredibly angry with you right now.” 

When her only response was silence, he got a good look at her face. If she had ever been scared around him, she had failed to show it. Throughout all their years fighting darkspawn, he had never known her to express her fear as vividly as she did now. Her visage was pale and wet with silent tears while, underneath the steel that cloaked her, she shook as if struck by a chill. 

He quickly pushed himself to his feet and went to look her over. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He breathed a sigh of relief as she shook her head. “Where’s Edgar? I thought he was supposed to protect you? Loyal mabari, and all that?” When this only seemed to feed her panic, he quickly changed gears. “Okay, he’s probably off ahead somewhere. Let’s get back to the road before--” He was interrupted as an ogre burst through the trees, followed by a small unit of hurlocks and genlocks.

They gnashed their broken, bloodied teeth together as they closed in on the pair. Alistair’s nose wrinkled as the stench of their rotting flesh entered his nostrils. Maker, every time he caught a whiff of that he was certain it would be enough to take him out by itself. Foolishly, he had thought he had smelt the last of it years ago. Drawing his sword and shield, he moved to stand in front of Sibyl. 

“I take it this isn’t the ‘courtesy call’ you were telling me about?”

“No,” Sibyl finally spoke, a portion of her confidence returning as Edgar suddenly bounded into the circle of darkspawn encroaching upon them, ripping the head of a genlock clean off on his way. “But I was right about one thing: this  _ is _ just like old times.” She sent a half-hearted smirk his way, a gesture which he acknowledged with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m glad we can keep a sense of humor, even when our lives are very much on the line.” He jabbed his blade through the chest of an incoming hurlock before blocking them from the swing of another one’s axe. If anything happened to Sibyl or his child, he would never forgive himself. “Stay vigilant. I’ll guard your back as best as I can.”

Despite the waver in her sword-wielding hand, Sibyl quipped, “I’m guessing now isn’t a great time for me to tell you that I need glasses?” She sliced through a short darkspawn that had lept at her then spun around to drive her steel directly into the face of another, black ooze seeping out of its mouth and nose before it collapsed onto the ground. 

The three of them were cutting through the smaller wave well enough, but there still remained the issue of the ogre. They had managed to dodge its charges so far out of sheer luck, but their stamina was waning. 

“You know,” Alistair said between swings, “if I weren’t so incredibly angry with you, I’d tell you how absolutely ravishing you look when you decapitate things.”

Sibyl grinned over at him, her free hand moving to wipe blood out of her eyes so she could see him clearly. He was covered in a fair amount of blood himself; she only hoped the majority of it was not his own. She wondered if she were truly domesticated when her second concern was how they were going to get it out of his robes. She brought her hand down to rest on her stomach, fighting down the anxiety that had clouded her judgement before. If she was worried about removing stains from his clothes, that meant they were going to get out of this, right?

As if it felt this inkling of hope, the ogre thundered back in their direction. Only this time, it collected its target within one giant, purpled fist. 

Alistair squirmed in its grasp, slamming his blade into any stretch of skin he could find as the pressure on his ribcage increased. When Sibyl called out his name, his reply came out in fragmented chunks as he was slammed into tree after tree. “Don’t worry... honey… I’ve got it… all under… control.” 

Sibyl deflected an incoming blow aimed at her neck, then pushed the monster off before Edgar enclosed his jaw around its leg and it came toppling down. She drove her greatsword through its torso before calling out over her shoulder, “You better not die, you bastard!”

“That’s… royal bastard… to you!”

He was able to drive his blade through the ogre’s rotting wrist, but this only seemed to anger the beast further. Its maw opened to roar into Alistair’s face, the smell of decay and rancid meat nearly choking him. Fangs the size of his hands snapped inches away from him, growing closer as the repetitive hits of his head started to catch up with him. Just when his vision was beginning to darken at its edges, the ogre suddenly let out a pained howl as Sibyl and Edgar came crashing into it. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly happened, but he knew that he landed on the ground roughly, still entangled in the ogre’s fist. Trying to gather his bearings, his eyes flickered open to see a one-armed ogre swinging at Edgar with the final vestiges of its health while his wife rode on its neck. From the looks of it, she had been trying to saw its head off but had given up and now had resorted to simply hacking away at its neck. 

“Try to give my husband a concussion  _ one more time _ , I dare you!” she screamed at it between hacks. 

When Alistair heard the crunch of bone, he knew that she had done it. The earth itself seemed to shudder as the creature fell, its horns almost piercing him as its head nearly detached from its torso. He tried to maneuver himself into a sitting position, but his skull felt like it had a nest of angered hornets taking refuge within it. He slumped back into the dirt just as Sibyl came running to his side.

Her dark hair was unruly, severely tangled and littered with twigs, leaves, and other, grosser things that definitely belonged inside darkspawn. Her face was painted with both mud and black, grimy blood, and a fresh cut stretched down her cheek. However, beneath the stench of the Deep Roads that covered her he could still smell a hint of honeysuckle. The hands that held him were soft and gentle, the callouses from the hilt of her weapon not yet formed. She was injured, filthy, and horribly exhausted, but she was still here.

The question remained: was he?

“Alistair, darling? Can you hear me?” Her voice sounded like it was flitting around his ear like a gnat, but he heard it all the same. He nodded. “Good. We need to get you back to the castle; I’m not sure we’ve seen our last battle today.”

“See? Aren’t you glad I came to rescue you?”

She closed her eyes, her smile only slightly strained as her fingers stroked his hair. “Yes, darling, so very glad.” Once she was able to get him to his feet, she draped his arm around her shoulder and let him lean on her. It would be a longer journey back--even longer if she couldn’t find his horse--but Sibyl decided she had gotten what she needed from this mission. Besides, some folks really enjoyed working from home.


	3. Alistair's Nightmare

In his dream, Alistair was running. The song within his head seemed to permeate the very air around him, whistling as if it were part of some sickly breeze. He couldn’t see what he was running from, and somehow that terrified him even more. He was in the Deep Roads, that much he knew, but no matter how long he ran the hallway never diverged. The crumbling stone walls closed in on him, seeming to funnel the sound in his rotting mind until it was deafening. It shrieked, it whispered, it lamented, it screamed. It beckoned him home to the Black City.

He no longer controlled his body; his feet moved in the rhythm of the song, his heart thumped in tempo, his breaths whistled its melody. Then suddenly he was running through his castle, though everything was colorless and dilapidated, as if years had passed since the last time he’d traversed these corridors. 

The sound of his name cut through the song that sickened his brain. He whipped around to see Sibyl standing before him, heavily pregnant and outlined in a ruby-colored haze. He didn’t remember moving to her, but he blinked and he was standing a foot away. Her hand reached out to cup his cheek as his vision started to blur. Her mouth opened and closed, her face contorted in such a way that he couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. 

Alistair didn’t understand this feeling within him. He was both empty and filled with a heavy pain. The song -- that beautiful song in his head -- she was dampening it. The horrid pain of rotting from the inside out grew and he felt rather than heard himself growl. He wanted to kill her for taking his song away, for making him feel as dead as he was. He grabbed the hand that clutched his sunken, blighted face and dug his nails into it until he drew blood. The smell of it intoxicated him, the red surrounding her deepening, her frame practically thrumming with his hunger as he yanked her closer. 

Despite his fuzzy vision, he could see that her cheeks shone with fallen tears. Yet she was laughing. Its bitter sound cut through the song and enraged him even more. Even when he thrust his hand into her stomach and felt her blood spill onto his hand and splatter onto the stone below them, she continued to laugh. He had expected to feel his child within her, but when he pulled out his hand, all he saw was thick, black blood. He watched it drip from his hand only to turn into ash and blow away in some nonexistent breeze before hitting the ground. 

He felt himself cry out with a rage he never knew he possessed before moving his bloodied hand to wrap about her throat. She stopped laughing as his claws dug into her, easily breaking the fragile skin. To his surprise, her expression softened. She reached her free hand up to caress his sunken cheek once more. His nails dug deeper into the hand he already held, his grip tightening until he heard her bones pop, yet he didn’t try to remove her other hand from his face. 

“Oh, my love.” Her voice bounced around in his head as if she were speaking to him from the other side of a tunnel. Despite the pressure he was applying to her neck, she wasn’t gasping or sputtering for air. Her smile was so serene that it was almost eerie. 

“We always knew it would end this way.”

He awoke just as her neck snapped beneath his fingers.


	4. Have Your Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW*

Their room was dark; the only light Alistair could see came from the dying embers of the fireplace. He shook from the events of his dream, his eyes stinging as he curled the hand that had ripped through his wife into a fist. It wasn’t uncommon for either of them to awake in the middle of the night, gasping and sweating from the nightmares the Taint often brought, but for Alistair, none had been as vivid as this. 

His hands fumbled around for Sibyl in the dark, trying to assure himself that she was there and everything was just as it had been before he fell asleep. 

When the place beside him was empty, however, he shot into a sitting position and began looking around frantically. The sheets that Sibyl usually had pulled up to her chin for warmth were only a few degrees warmer than ice. He glanced at the dying light of the fire. Perhaps she had just gone to find some more wood? he thought as he shakily pushed himself into a standing position. Then his eyes flickered to the hefty stack of logs laying half-illuminated beside the fireplace, and he was out the door before Edgar could lift his head in weary confusion.

Where could she have gone at this hour?

A part of him feared that whoever she had been trying to meet a few days ago had decided to take matters into their own hands. To abduct the queen, though? That would be too bold of a move for just about anyone. Besides, Sibyl would never allow herself to be kidnapped like a common… er, kid.

Even though he tried to reassure himself, as he hurried down the corridors he couldn’t help but remember the ugly, blighted images from his dream. He remembered how her throat felt within his grasp, how fragile she had suddenly seemed. He shuddered and wiped the invisible blood from his hand onto his nightshirt. He imagined it seeping through the white cotton, staining him just as these false memories would for the rest of his days.

He wasn’t even sure where he was going, he just assumed that his feet would eventually lead him to her. He had just quickened his pace to an anxious jog when he heard something clatter and break off to his left. He immediately froze beside the great doors that lead into the dining hall.

He raised an eyebrow. If anyone were to break into the castle, surely they would have sought a more interesting target than their sweetmeats? But sure enough, as he quietly slid into the large room, another crash and several explicatives were heard from the pantry. With a good-natured sigh, he skirted around the long, wooden tables and benches to the pantry door. As he slowly pushed it open, he heard the noises stop briefly, as if the person froze when they’d realized they’d been caught. 

“Wanted a little midnight snack?” he asked his wife, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame to look her over with thinly-veiled amusement.

She stared back at him with wide eyes and cheeks full of what he assumed to be their rations for the coming winter. Even though she could probably beat his ass with her hands tied behind her back, right now she looked like a kid who had gotten a hold of the cookie jar.

And broke it, from what he could see from the clay shards on the floor. “I’ll clean it up,” she finally said after a large swallow.

Maker, what a relief it was to see her right now, even if the danger had all been in his head. He wasn’t sure why she sounded like she thought he was mad at her. Truthfully, it was taking every ounce of his restraint just to refrain from falling to the ground beside her and pulling her to him in a tearful embrace. Instead, he kneeled down in front of the mess and began to pick up the remains of the pot and what looked like dried pieces of fruit along with it. 

“At least you’re eating healthy. What?” He looked back up at her when she made an odd choking noise. A naughty smile spread slow across her face as she quietly pushed a jar of tiny cakes away from her, her eyes darting around conspicuously. “Oh, so  _ you’re _ the rat that’s been tormenting our bakers for the past week.”

“Alistair, I’m hungry!” she whined behind the cake she had tried to discreetly pop into her mouth when he wasn’t looking. “I can’t just eat more at dinner; I’ll look like I’m letting myself go.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he coughed to hide his laughter as he gestured towards her body, “but isn’t that kinda the goal here? Or are you planning to go into hiding once you start getting, er, _ round _ ?”

She scoffed before chucking a piece of dried fruit at him. “First you call me a rat, then you have the nerve to say I’m going to be round? Round! It seems I’ll be the one teaching our child manners after all.”

“Then who will teach them how to pilfer pantries?” He had just finished disposing of the debris when he finished this thought, and he knew he only had the time it would take her to stand to get out and as far away from her as possible.

“Oh, now you’ve done it. Get back here!”

She chased him out of the pantry and across the dining hall, practically leaping over the tables as she fought to close the distance between them. She almost caught him at the door, but he was able to slip outside and slam it shut on her before laughing and darting away in the direction of their chambers. He was certain the sounds of their bare feet slapping against the stone would wake up the sane residents of his castle that were asleep at this hour, but he didn’t care. 

When they finally both made it back inside their bedroom, they were practically gasping from exertion and excitation. As Sibyl closed the door behind her, she turned on Alistair with her mouth open in the beginnings of a proper scolding, but her words got trapped in her mouth as he slammed his lips into hers. He heard her let out a surprised squeak as the door groaned against the weight of their bodies. 

Her mouth tasted sweet, and only grew sweeter as he felt her smile. Her hands moved up his chest and into his hair, the lines her fingers drew along his neck burning like fire. From what he could tell, his touch was having the same effect as he traced the curves hidden beneath her nightgown. The thin fabric did little to shelter her skin; by the time he had made his way to her breasts, her nipples were hard against his palm. 

She pulled back as he started to undo the tie of her gown, her lips red and her eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter. “This isn’t going to stop me from chewing you out properly. You know that, right?”

“I think you’ve done enough chewing for tonight, don’t you?”

“He thinks he’s clever. You hear that, Edgar? He thinks he’s clever.”

He smiled against her neck, his fingers moving across her shoulders with only the ghost of a touch. Her gown was suddenly laying in a pool the color of seafoam at her feet. She watched his eyes traverse her skin as she stood before him, and she got sudden flashbacks to their first night together, inside her tent, when he had looked at her the same way. Only this time there was something different within him, a confidence perhaps, that darkened his gaze and caused his lips to tug upwards in a knowing smirk. She wanted this too, and he was more than aware.

Goosebumps formed where her touch graced his skin as she removed his shirt and urged his head back down to kiss her again. She loved how familiar he felt. From the soft skin behind his ears, to the hardened curve of his jaw, to the sprinkling of auburn hair across his chest and down his stomach; she had known all of him for a long time. She knew exactly which places would cause his breath to hitch in his throat, which would cause him to moan, and which would make him tremble, nearly losing himself in her grasp.

Tonight, she really wanted to see the latter.

He watched with raised eyebrows as she slunk down to her knees, the blue in her eyes flashing dangerously as she pressed her lips against hardening bulge in his pants. With the precision of a practiced hand, or rather, mouth, she had untied his waistband and slid his bottoms down his legs with the aid of her teeth. Her fingers trailed up his thighs, her tongue slipping out to wet her lips as she examined him fully.

“I love when my wife looks at me like she looks at cake,” he teased, shifting forward slightly to playfully poke her nose with the tip of his member. 

She glared up at him but said nothing as she placed his head within her mouth, her tongue lazily swirling around it before she moved deeper. He wound his fingers through her hair and pulled it back from her face so he could have a better look at her. Would it be imprudent to tell her she looked more beautiful than ever right now? Yes, he figured, yes it would.

But, Maker, it was true. There she was before him, on her knees, taking all of him inside her mouth and it was all he could do to keep his legs from shaking. The way the light of the moon caught in her eye whenever she blessed him with a sultry look, the way the dying fire shaded her back in reddish hues… he was absolutely mesmerized. And then there was the way she  _ felt. _

He let himself close his eyes for one brief moment just to focus on it, and she took this as the opportune time to shove him against the back of her throat, her nails digging into his hips to both steady herself and pull him farther. He couldn’t stop the words that came out of his mouth as his eyes shot open and he had to hold onto her for balance. He was taken aback by Sibyl’s urgency, feeling like he was suddenly taking a backseat as she moved both hands to curl around his shaft.

It was all going so fast; Alistair tried to fight the urge to finish, but she seemed so damned determined. “Sibyl,” he spoke her name in a breathy rasp, “Sibyl, what are you doing?” When she paused to give him a quizzical look, he hastily urged her head back. “Oh nonono, don’t stop. Please.”

He could tell she was fighting a smirk, and for whatever reason, it was enough to bring him right to the edge. He had to lean over her and grasp the door frame, not even trying to stop the cry that escaped his throat as he nearly finished inside her mouth. Nearly being the keyword here, as she had abruptly removed herself from him and was now staring up at him with a horribly smug grin.

“You know, I suddenly find that I’m quite tired. I think it’s time for me to retire.” Of course she tried to play it off. She fluttered her lashes at him coyly as she slowly rose to her feet, then stalked over to the bed without even a glance over her shoulder.

Sighing, Alistair tried to ignore the pre-cum that dripped out of him as he pressed his forehead into the door. “I can’t believe I fell for that. Again.” He groaned before turning around to watch her crawl into bed with hungry eyes. “Why oh why must I be married to such a cruel temptress?” he bemoaned beneath a strained smile.

“Oh, pish.”

He went to throw a couple of logs in the fire, still throbbing painfully, before sliding under the covers next to her. “You know you sound like an old grandmother when you say that,” he whispered by her ear as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

“My darling,” she moaned, “you know just what to say. Call me Old Gran next time you make love to me, won’t you?” 

Just the thought of that softened him, but he fought to push it out of his mind as he gently tugged her around so that she was on her back. She relented, to his surprise, and lay looking up at him with an expression that lightened when he pressed a tender kiss to her temple. 

“Why don’t we save that for when you’re actually an Old Gran, yeah?”

Though his words were sweet, they tasted bitter coming out of his mouth. Sibyl brought a hand up to gently caress his face, admiring him as her fingers traced over the soft lines that had started forming on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Lines from worry and laughter, two things she knew he’d experienced in proportions that varied day to day, year to year. They were both nearing their thirtieth year, an age at which most people were entirely unconcerned with the idea of their death. But they weren’t most people, a fact which they tried to ignore. Their own blood was their poison; they would be fortunate to live into their fifties. That blighted call in their heads would eventually prove too strong, and they would be forced to flee to the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until they either were killed or joined their ranks.

But that was their future, and the two of them had made a silent pact to focus on their present. Sibyl took her free hand and grabbed his within it, guiding it to rest on the small bump in her lower stomach. Barely even visible, yet it held the most precious thing in his world. He spread his fingers, his eyes stinging as he imagined a tiny child -- his child! -- taking shape within. 

“Do you… do you think they’re comfy in there?”

Sibyl laughed. “I imagine it’s quite luxurious. A warm place to sleep, three meals a day, what else could you ask for?”

When she laughed, she noticed his eyes shoot up to meet hers with something in them that almost resembled fear. Of course, she wouldn’t know how much this current situation -- her laughing while she held his face and he held their child -- reminded him of his nightmare.

Within a blink of an eye, he thought, they both could be gone. Could he simply stave off his recollection of what had happened by telling himself that it was just a dream caused by the Taint, and not an omen of what was to come?

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, to either of you,” he vowed quietly, largely to himself. 

She still wore her smile, but the mirth behind her eyes was gone. “I know, Alistair.” She paused thoughtfully before adding, “One day soon, we’re going to be an actual family. Isn’t that crazy?”

She watched as the shadows over his features disappeared when she said the word “family.” He had never had one, really, and the thought that he could provide his child with the something he had spent his whole life searching for was enough to brighten any mood. His expression warmed her to her core, and she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him then. 

It started out gentle, even a little guarded, but she was determined not to let their sadness become the gatekeeper of their desire. Her mouth parted as she goaded him to let go of the fear that aged his skin and troubled his heart. 

And he did. He kissed her until her lips were raw and wet, then he planted them all over her body. He traveled down her shoulder and across her breasts, hands gentle as they kneaded them, then he moved down to her stomach. She smiled as his expression changed, only briefly, as he regarded it once more. His kisses were almost shy here, as if nervous he might cause Sibyl’s little guest discomfort. He was very relieved the day she assured him sex wouldn’t hurt the baby, but it was apparent he still had his doubts.

Alistair was surprised to find that she was wet when he finally made his way down to her entrance. Instantly, he felt himself growing hard again as his tongue now took over in exploring her. The taste of her had changed ever since she had become pregnant, but he couldn’t say that it was a negative change. In fact, he rather liked it. It was as if everything about her that he had loved before absolutely intoxicated him now. He had never loved her more, and he wanted to make sure she was aware.

His hands held her legs as she squirmed beneath him. He pulled back and pressed his lips to her soft inner thigh as one hand moved to rub her clit. He watched her eyes roll back in her head as his slow, sensuous circles escalated in speed and intensity, another digit moving to massage her on the inside. She was practically begging him to enter her, something that his proud Sibyl rarely found herself doing. The sound of her made him twitch with deep yearning, fully erect and doubting he could withhold himself from her much longer. 

He was able to enter her in time to ride the final waves of her orgasm, pulling him deeper into her as she bucked and gripped the pillow behind her. Her skin was moist against his as he slid in and out of her, his eyes drinking in her blissful expression as if it were wine. He nuzzled her neck and felt the racing of her heart against his cheek, subconsciously quickening his pace to match its frantic rhythm. She had only just become undone from his touch, yet now she could feel another wave building; a warmth spread through her abdomen as she arched her back to meet his thrusts with her own. 

He moved to kiss her desperately, trying to keep from spilling out into her too soon. Overcome both by their pleasure and exertion, their kisses were sloppy and wet. Teeth pulled at whatever each could find, almost ravenously, as the two walked that common line between lovers and animals. 

“Alistair,” Sibyl whispered his name, momentarily bringing him back to his senses, “Alistair, I love you. Fuck. I love you.”

A brief pause. They stared at each other, breathless, pressing their foreheads together in a gentle reminder of the emotions that ran deeper than the blood pumping furiously in their veins. 

“You know I love you. More than anything. More than I care to say, frankly.” His kiss was soft then, his breath shaky as he combed his fingers through her hair.

She didn’t break eye contact as her hips began moving again, and suddenly he was losing himself inside of her. She held onto him as she, too, lost herself in the final spasms that turned her vision black and made her make noises Alistair was certain she would later deny. 

He nearly collapsed on top of her as he finished, his breaths labored as he planted a slow, lazy kiss on her lips before tumbling over to her side. They both laid in silence for a few moments, recovering, until Sibyl finally rolled to rest her head on his chest. The silence continued, but it was comfortable; all that needed to be said had already passed between them, wordless and easy as day passes into night. Soon they were both sleeping so soundly, not even the nightmares dared trouble them. 


	5. The Grand Feast

“I truly don’t see the point of tonight,” Sibyl sighed, craning her head to inspect herself in the mirror while her servant wove her hair in a complicated braid behind her. “Orlesians only consider something an ‘event’ if everything is laced in gold and at least one person is found dead the next morning. If we’re genuinely concerned about saving face, I feel as if sending a fruit basket to the ambassador would send the same message.”

Bronwen nodded in agreement, her thin lips pressed in a tight line as she worked through the queen’s thick hair. She would pause every time she moved her head back and forth, preferring to wait in patient silence rather than ask her to be still. She was very much unlike Judith, Sibyl’s former servant, who had a head full of fiery red hair and a tongue to match. Bronwen was much younger than both Judith and Sibyl, with large, brown eyes and short hair of the same color. She was also rather short and meek, sometimes painfully so, oftentimes giving others the impression of a mouse in both appearance and temperament.

Sibyl noticed her taking her hands away each time she fidgeted, and resorted to tapping her fingers against the surface of her vanity to relieve her anxious energy. Bronwen, of course, took this to mean something different and hastily muttered, “I’m nearly finished, milady. Forgive me.”

“Oh! No, no. This is just my nerves. Please take your time, it looks lovely,” Sibyl said as she tried in vain to meet her eyes in the mirror. She wasn’t lying; what she lacked in conversation skills, Bronwen made up for in her ability to make Sibyl appear worthy of her title. Tonight, she had wreathed her hair in a thick, elaborate plait that traveled down to the middle of her back, interweaving gold ribbon in hopes of impressing their Orlesian guests.

They fell into an awkward silence again before Sibyl asked, if only to fill the void, “Are you at all well-versed in The Game, Bronwen?”

To her surprise, the young woman smiled and briefly met Sibyl’s curious eyes in the mirror. “What do you think, milady?” Sibyl returned her grin, suddenly missing Judith a little less. 

She didn’t tell Sibyl that she had finished, rather just turned around and moved to the chair upon which her gown had been draped. She picked it up, holding it to the light to scrutinize it for any impurities before bringing it before the queen. It was a beautiful, if not a little modest, piece, with long, velvety sleeves and outlined in silk. Sibyl wasn’t quite sold on the color, but as Bronwen slid it up over her hips and onto her shoulders, she thought perhaps green had been a decent choice after all. 

She gently moved her hair to rest over one shoulder so that she could see the ribbons for herself. It was absolutely marvelous, she decided, after witnessing how it appeared to make her hair shine in the candlelight. The flecks of gold within the floral stitching served as its perfect compliment, and she ran her fingers across the bodice with an expression that nearly resembled excitement. At her age, she wouldn’t dare let herself show the giddiness such events incited from her; on nights like these, she felt closer than ever to her happiest years, spent adorned in Cousland finery and swirling around the sea of laughing faces like the wind over water.

A sharp tug from the lacing of her bodice brought her back down to earth and she cried out. “Not so tight, Bronwen! I’m not as small as I used to be.” Bronwen uttered a red-faced apology as she quickly loosened the dress until it was no longer suffocating. 

“There we are!” Sibyl let out a sigh as she ran her hands down her front, simultaneously smoothing the fabric and checking to see how noticeable she was. Looking at her from the side, she only looked a little bloated, virtually imperceptible to an unfamiliar eye. 

Finally, Bronwen opened the wooden box on her vanity and gingerly picked up a small yet elaborate golden diadem. Then, with the solemnity of a real coronation, she placed the circlet on her head, lowering it until the teardrop emerald rested just above her eyebrows.

Sibyl looked herself over with wide eyes before finally smiling and letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I must say, you’ve made me look like a queen tonight, Bronwen.”

Flustered, the girl cast her eyes downward and clasped her hands behind her back in modesty. “You are always a queen, milady. I only make use of what is already there.”

As was the custom in Ferelden, the king and queen were the final guests to arrive in the great hall. The massive pillars of stone which lined the room served as the floor for shadows to dance, leaping and twirling in accordance with the flames of the massive center fire. Upon this fire roasted the biggest pig their tenants could procure, its head rolling as someone spun its body to the beat of a lonely lute playing somewhere off in the corner. Its eyes bulged out of its huge head, appearing to watch the room as they rolled in laborious circles up and down on the spit.

Every chair was occupied, and the tables were filled with generous helpings of pork, mutton, bread, candied fruits, meat pies, cakes, and -- most importantly -- pitchers of ale. The people that sat beneath the dancing shadows were chattering loud enough to overcome the roar of the fire, yet they did not touch their food. When Alistair and Sibyl entered, a great hush fell over the crowd as they all turned to catch a glimpse of the only two souls in the kingdom their stomachs were worth rumbling over.

It was customary during grand feasts to wait until the royal family was seated and had been served, but Alistair had spent too much of his life with an empty stomach to do that in good conscience. 

“Well,” he called out jovially, “that’s certainly enough waiting on my account.” He leaned to the table nearest him and swiped a full mug up in his hand, raising it above his head before commanding his people, most eloquently, to “go crazy!”

Sibyl couldn’t help but roll her eyes as he took a big swig from the cup for posterity only to make a face as he brought it back down onto the table. “I always hate doing that. How can something that smells so good taste so bad?” He chivalrously offered her his hand, which she accepted so that they could move between the tables and around the pig to reach their thrones.

“Alistair, you know you don’t  _ have _ to drink the ale every time? No one’s even looking at you the moment after you tell them to eat.”

“But those that are looking must think I’m a really cool king, for sure. In fact, I bet they--”

She couldn’t hear what he said next over the laughter and sounds of feasting, but she was quite positive it was for the best.

He allowed her up first onto the raised platform upon which they had placed a table and several chairs in front of the thrones so that they could eat and talk with distinguished guests. Those that had been seated at this table rose to greet them, the man whose seat was positioned closest to hers moving to be the first to kiss her hand. 

The young man, attractive and dark-headed, bent his head with a certain suaveness that suggested he was a veteran of this particular gesture. “Ah, I had heard many tales of the queen-consort’s beauty, but to capture your sweetness into words would be like trying to bottle sunshine.” His lips lingered on her hand for just a little too long, and she despised herself for the warmth that spread across her face. “I am Duke Cyril de Montfort of Orlais.” She didn’t need his introduction to know he was from Orlais; if the accent and outspoken flirtations weren’t enough, the overpowering scent of perfume that wafted from his clothes would’ve revealed him to any true Fereldan without so much as a glance.

“Bienvenue, Duke de Montfort,” she greeted him coolly.

Of course Alistair had sat him beside her; the mere smell of him was already making her nauseous. But, she thought with a furtive look over her shoulder, he was probably regretting his decision now. 

The remainder of the small group introduced themselves to Alistair, though he seemed less than eager to exchange pleasantries, moving past them and slumping into his throne with a pouty huff. He was already taking his annoyance out on a leg of mutton by the time Sibyl sat down at his side. She tried to start eating, but the duke’s stare was making her anxious.

“So, Duke de Montfort...”

“Cyril, I insist.”

“Cyril,” she amended, after an uncertain pause, “I trust that you had a safe journey from Chateau Haine?”

If he was surprised she knew of his family’s vacation home, he didn’t show it. “Quite safe, Your Majesty. You must come visit sometime, no? I suspect you’ll find the climate much more, hm, agreeable there.”

She was going to pretend that his eyes didn’t just dart to her husband. “I’m afraid I’ve grown quite fond of the cold and the wet.”

His smile turned sardonic as he filled her glass with summer wine. His gaze was as steady as the stream that poured from the decanter as he replied, “Ah yes, you have your dogs to keep you warm, do you not?”

“The Mabari is an honest and loyal beast, my duke, qualities which are much appreciated east of the Frostbacks.”

To her surprise, Cyril chuckled. “And they say you Fereldans have no taste for The Game! Wit and beauty are our qualities of choice. They will serve you well, should you ever travel west.”

Sibyl popped a piece of pork pie into her mouth, swallowing it and washing it down with wine before replying. “Are you always this impertinent, or just when the king stands you up?”

He smiled behind the upturned brim of his cup, almost as if he were trying to hide his amusement. “Do you know why we Orlesians wear masks in court?” Sibyl shook her head in a gesture for him to continue. He leaned towards her, a strand of carefully oiled hair falling to his eyebrow as he whispered, “We are such an expressive people, we would not be able to keep any secrets otherwise.”

She frowned at this, but before she could ask him what he was supposed to be implying, she felt a hand on top of hers. She turned to see Alistair gazing at her with thinly-veiled concern. “You’ve hardly touched your food. Are you feeling well, my dear?"

“Oh, yes. Quite well.” As if to prove this, Sibyl took a large bite of the loaf of bread that had begun to cool on her plate. “Just distracted by conversation.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting in irritation. “I saw.” So, worry was indeed not the only emotion that prompted his sudden interest in her appetite. She felt rather than saw Cyril’s sneer from behind her. “Are you enjoying the food, Duke de Montfort?” Alistair inquired as he leaned forward so that he could see him.

“Ah, yes. I have been impressed by both the food and the company this evening,” he answered, if for no other reason than to provoke that twitch in Alistair’s right eye. “I must ask, when does the dancing commence? I imagine your wife is as graceful with her feet as she is with her words.”

“Oh, I certainly was in my youth. But I’m afraid it’s been years since I’ve had a proper jaunt around the dance floor,” Sibyl replied with a wistful sigh. 

“Mon dieu! The king neglects his kingdom by withholding from them the chance for a dance with his beautiful queen.”

“Nonsense!” Alistair interjected with a sharp squeeze of her hand. She could practically feel his blood boiling from underneath his skin. “Of course you’ll dance! In fact, I think we should go ahead and get the music going.” He waved his hand at the cluster of musicians that had been drinking in a corner and they scurried to their places. As if in a rush, he downed the rest of his stew and finished his wine in a few swallows, urging her to do the same as the servants began to clear a space for dancing.

“Ah, a wise man,” was all Cyril said, the shadow of a smirk hidden behind his fork as he resumed his meal.

The nobles and high born residents of Denerim chattered with excitement as the beats of the drum signaled for the beginning of the grand dance. They raised their cups, swaying and singing along to the swell of the bagpipes and flutes. They must’ve made the drink especially strong this year, Sibyl thought as she, too, found herself swaying to the lively tune.

When the king stood, the rest of the hall was obligated to as well. Everyone looked to Alistair as he took Sibyl’s hand with flourish. Quite frankly, Sibyl was astonished. Alistair hated very few things in the world, but dancing was certainly one of them. Unlike her, he had never been properly taught how and often -- and embarrassingly -- relied upon her to lead. As a result, he had chosen to sit out at every party they’d ever attended, indirectly causing her to sit out as well. She truly didn’t mind watching others twirl and glide around each other, making and breaking formations as they weaved to and fro in the disciplined dances of their culture. It was entertaining enough to watch, and she rather enjoyed making commentary with him in whispers painted with laughter.

Her surprise made her pause in accepting his hand, and he sent a frightful look out at the crowd before muttering behind his teeth, “I was sort of hoping you’d just say yes.”

She hoped the grin on her face wasn’t as wide as it felt when she delicately placed her hand in his and rose to her feet. All the young and willing teyrns, arls, and banns stood with their partners before following their sovereigns to the center floor. They watched how the two smiled at each other, both looking handsome and jolly in their red and green. It had been a while since they had made a public appearance, and their blatant affection softened the eyes of even their most outspoken critics.

“Are you sure about this?” Sibyl turned her head slightly to whisper, trying not to betray her own excitement.

Alistair’s smile was nervous. “Well, it’s a little late to change my mind now, isn’t it? Besides, I’d rather risk making a fool of myself in front of my wife than watch her dance with an Orlesian right under my nose. Damn it, Sib,” his voice lowered as he briefly looked her up and down, “why must you always be the most beautiful woman in the room?”

She felt her face grow warm, but whether it was from the alcohol or the compliment, she couldn’t tell. “My new servant worked wonders this evening. It’s a shame Judith had to leave so suddenly, but I think that I’m beginning to like her.” It was her turn to admire him now, practically glowing beneath his red coat, the gold of his crown nearly blending into his hair. 

Her eyes continued to follow him as they broke apart and took their places, facing each other a couple feet apart. The women lined up on one side and the men on the other as they waited for the music to start. When the gentle chords of the flute began, the women all stepped to the side to curtsy, followed by the men, who bowed across the room to their partner. Then they traipsed toward each other, feet moving in time with the drum. The couples circled around themselves, their hands snaking upwards so that their palms could press together, a brief yet emotive touch before they split apart and returned to their separate sides. 

The women grabbed their skirts and lifted them, revealing their lower leg as they jumped and kicked it out while the men clapped along to the swelling beat. As the music started to pick up, they moved back together, only this time they spun around faster. Hoots and hollers began to fill up the hall as the men lifted up their partners by the waist and brought them back down again in a flutter of skirts. 

Though he had been keeping up so far, Alistair held onto her for one turn too long, and she was still up in the air when the rest of the party was bouncing back away from each other. Suddenly it was just the two of them in the center of the hall. Even though the music was reaching its climactic peak, it seemed very far away now. Alistair’s face was red with embarrassment, but Sibyl’s was bright with laughter as she broke decorum to bend down and kiss him. It was a short but meaningful kiss, their lips pressing together much like their fingers had as they swirled around. Alistair thought she would be ashamed, considering how much she enjoyed the thrill of the dance, but in this moment she beamed at him as if he were some dashing gallant straight out of a children’s storybook.

The rest of the dancers, who had now become part of the audience, clapped and cheered at this brilliant performance. Their energy fed the musicians, and soon they were all yelling and spinning to a new, fast-paced song. Still laughing, Sibyl took Alistair’s hands as he set her down and began to guide him around the dance floor. He was still a little anxious, but he swiped a mug from a nearby table and downed it for liquid courage rather than appearances this time. 

“Let’s see that lemon-scented weasel keep up with us now,” Alistair shouted in her ear as they cantered and bobbed with the crowd around the fire. She looked over his shoulder to see Cyril still seated at the table, seeming to be watching the room with a curious eye. When he caught her gaze, he lifted his goblet up in a congratulatory gesture, his face unreadable at this distance. 

The smoke from the fire was being manipulated by the throngs of dancers twirling at its side. It rose up into the great pillars and then sank again, low over their heads like a fog. The smell of sweat had filled the air, and soon Sibyl’s hand was slick where it pressed into Alistair’s. She could tell her husband rarely drank by the way he was afflicted now; he had taken the lead and had begun whirling her around like a bear that had learned the foxtrot. 

“Have you been practicing?” she asked, half joking.

“Oh, Councillor Warwick and I often sneak off in the dead of night to practice my two-step. We’re working our way up to three now.”

Sibyl opened her mouth to respond, but Alistair’s feet suddenly got tangled between hers and they both were sent flailing in opposite directions. Sibyl fell back onto a nearby table, her spine slamming harshly into the wood while her hand sliced up against a knife someone had left poking up from a loaf of bread. Alistair was less lucky; gravity would have driven him straight into the roaring fire if he had not caught himself with the spoke that the remains of the pig had been burning on. The force of his fall caused his crown to topple off of his head and drop into the bed of fire, a spray of sparks erupting in a final protest. He hung from the spoke with wide eyes, the flames inches from licking his face.

The room was silent as Sibyl pushed herself up from the table and hurried to pull her husband away from the fire. He was so shaken, he didn’t notice the blood that her hand had left on his coat. She curled her reddened fingers into a fist in hopes that those around her wouldn’t see it either. 

When Alistair continued to stare around himself in bewilderment, Sibyl moved to address the confused crowd that had gathered around them. She smiled as genuinely as she could manage and called out, “It seems that the king and I have had enough wine for the night!” The laughter afterwards was nervous until she joined in, praying that everyone would just carry on.

When the music resumed, it was muted as if the band was afraid their jaunty noise would only deepen the wounds to the king’s pride. “Alistair,” she finally asked him in a hushed voice, “are you alright?”

He shook his head, finally seeming to notice her injury. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No, no, I just fell on something sharp. Alistair, you almost were burned alive! What happened?”

His hands were trembling as he brought them up to run through his now naked hair. Suddenly one hand came down and his fingers hooked themselves around her arm tightly. He tugged her close to him and whispered, “I was tripped. Someone tried to kill me just now.”

Sibyl’s heart dropped as his words, yet she could not bring herself to believe him. “My king, you’re a bit intoxicated right now. It was probably careless placing of our own feet that caused us to fall.” He wasn’t the most graceful dancer she had ever met, and she figured he could be misdirecting the blame to regain some dignity within his own eye. “There’s no need to be ashamed; everyone got a good laugh out of it.”

He shook his head again, his gaze darkening as he looked around them in clear paranoia. “I know what I felt. It was the ambassador. That greasy little weasel. I know it.”

“Alistair, he was sitting at our table the whole time. I saw him. He couldn’t possibly have--”

“Couldn’t possibly have what, Your Majesty?” Cyril appeared over her shoulder, looking smug as ever with his hands clasped behind his back. “I must thank you for the invitation to this feast; it has been most entertaining to learn what Fereldens consider a grand fete. The Orlesian definition is quite different.” He smirked before looking down at Alistair’s singed and bloodied finery. “Or is it?”

Before he could respond, an older man wearing the uniform of their staff scurried over to kneel in front of her. “My queen, I see you have been hurt. Allow me to bandage your wound.”

Her mouth twitched as she struggled to smile. “Well, we wouldn’t want to ruin this pretty dress now would we?” She showed him the slash through her palm and watched as he pulled out cloth bandages from a small pouch on his side. Her eyes flashed back up to Alistair, who was staring icily at Cyril. Cyril wasn’t meeting Alistair’s gaze, and was instead observing the man wrap gauze around Sibyl’s hand with mild interest. 

“Alistair,” she said his name softly, encouraging him to don the mask Cyril had implied they needed. “There’s no need to ruin the evening over this. I’ll be all patched up soon, and we can get the stains out of your robe.” She winced as she felt the man tie the bandage into a tight knot, suddenly feeling faint. She frowned as the blood loss caused her head to spin as if she were still out on the dance floor, leaning against a nearby wall for support. 

“I do wish you would stop scowling at me, Your Majesty. I am not your enemy here,” Cyril addressed Alistair as soon as the servant had finished and exited their presence. “I long to see peace between our great nations as much as you do.”

Alistair forced an expression that Sibyl supposed was intended to be pleasant on his face before nodding reluctantly. “Of course.”

Cyril smiled most delicately before bowing before them. “Of course,” he repeated. “I’m afraid it is time for me to depart. But I, again, thank you most humbly for this evening.” Out of courtesy, Sibyl offered him her unbandaged hand. When he took it, she felt something crinkle against her skin as he kissed her. “May Andraste bless you both. And your kin, whenever they should arrive,” he added, looking directly into Sibyl’s eyes.

“How did you know?” she asked, shock falling across her face like a curtain.

“I did not, I had only suspicions. Until now.”

This sent a shiver down her spine, but neither she nor Alistair spoke as they watched him disappear into the murmuring crowd. She sent a meaningful glance to her husband before leading him into a shadowy corner away from inquisitive ears. Sibyl then revealed the note to him and brought it up to a candle to unfold it. In the light, she noticed that her bandage seemed completely dry and wondered for a moment why she had stopped bleeding, but the words on the note caused her to immediately forget this thought.

_ Les cochons ont des yeux.  _ The pigs have eyes.

She read it to Alistair under her breath as her gaze floated slowly to the pig, no longer rotating, on the spoke where Alistair had nearly died. She met its dark, dead eyes and dread dropped like a rock straight into her stomach.


	6. A Crown on Fire

Breakfast the next morning was quiet. Neither the king nor the queen had much of an appetite, and they felt uneasy speaking out in the open. They weren’t quite sure who these “pigs” were, but the cold, stone walls of their castle were growing more suffocating by the minute. The great hall had been cleared and cleaned from last night’s festivities, and the two dined at one of the remaining tables in front of the fireplace. Rather than a roaring blaze, the fire today was obediently crackling, though Alistair’s eye would occasionally flash to it as if wary it might leap out at him once more. 

He was still annoyed with Sibyl for not believing the tale of his assassination attempt. He had hardly looked at her the entire meal and only grunted in response to her efforts at conversation. Reluctantly, she finally settled into an uncomfortable silence only broken by the clinking of silverware and the occasional sigh. 

Sibyl’s fingers rapped anxiously on the table as their food was cleared out from in front of them and there was no longer something to distract her mouth. “Do you think I would be able to join your meeting today?”

For the first time, Alistair met her gaze. “Why?”

Sibyl rolled her eyes. “Because I want to pester you some more. Alistair, have I no right to the same information you receive?”

His face suddenly grew tired. “Of course you do, it’s just that some people would rather have to deal with just one face glaring down at them from the throne, not two.”

“I have never--” she paused at the look he gave her before amending, “Alright, I sometimes glare. But only when I feel like they’re being condescending towards you.”

“Have you thought that perhaps they’re being condescending because they think I’m just my brother’s sequel? Sitting all pretty and gilded while my wife runs the show behind the scenes?”

“We are not Anora and Cailan,” Sibyl spat back at him, though the indignant light in her eye dimmed a little as she watched him stand. The sound of the legs of his chair shrieked as they scraped against the floor.

“You can’t even take me at my word when I tell you that someone tried to kill me.” He fought to retain a normal volume as his anger leapt out like the tongues of fire that had consumed his crown. “‘Oh, there goes that oaf, Alistair. Not quite smart enough to realize he’s tripping over his own two feet.’ It’s humiliating. How can I expect anyone to respect me if you, of all people, don’t?”

“I never said that!” Sibyl cried out as he stormed off towards the door.

“You might as well have.”

“And we never spoke about this in front of anyone!” 

He stopped with his fingers on the handle, gripping it so tightly his knuckles lost their color. “You said it in front of that ambassador,” he barked, then his voice dropped. “But that doesn’t matter. You think it, though, and your opinion of me matters. More than you know.”

Sibyl flinched as the door slammed shut behind him, the nausea urging the food out of her stomach now from more than just morning sickness.

They didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day. The corner of Alistair’s desk remained empty as his distracted eyes scanned over page after page of documents. He tried not to allow himself to feel guilty over what he had spewed at her this morning, but he supposed he could apologize for his tone whenever she inevitably sought him out. She would come find him, right? 

His face was bathed in orange as he looked up at the falling sun through his window. The diplomats from the Imperium would be arriving at any moment, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than Sibyl at his side when he faced them. She was probably strolling around the garden, like she usually did at this hour. Or maybe she was raiding their pantry, he thought with a smile as he used his desk to push himself into a standing position.

Then, with impeccable timing, someone knocked at his door and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Come in, my dear,” he called out.

The door squeaked open and Alistair saw the very confused face of Councillor Warwick poke through. “Um, Your Majesty? I just wanted to make you aware of the arrival of the Tevinter magisters.”

Alistair felt his face grow red as he quickly dropped his eyes. “Oh, yes. Thank you.” Just as Warwick’s fluffy, white brow had begun to disappear behind the door, he spoke up again. “Wait, I thought that the meeting was with a group of non-mages?”

“As did I.” There was something hidden in his voice as he added, “I’ve requested the presence of all available members of the guard. I won’t have them thinking they can intimidate us, Your Majesty.”

Alistair nodded as he chewed on his lip thoughtfully. As Warwick began to close the door again, Alistair hastily interjected, “Have someone place my sword in that secret notch in my chair. Oh, and call upon the queen. I have an inkling that I might need her as well.”

When he entered the throne room, he was greeted by a dozen of his guards. They had been positioned in two straight lines leading up to his throne; though he tried, he founded little comfort in the blank stares they produced from beneath their large, polished helmets. When he sat down, they picked up their shields in near-perfect unison and brought them to a defensive position in front of their chest, the roaring emblem of Ferelden reflecting in the final rays of day that entered through the stained glass.

Alistair clutched the arms of his chair to keep from fidgeting as the two soldiers pulled the massive doors open to allow the visitors in. The air in the room seemed to drop as the cluster of magisters and their personal guard entered with smiles as cold and vacant as ice. One woman stepped in front of the group, demarcating herself as their leader. Her small, dark eyes peered up at the king from beneath an elaborate white hood with fabric that rose up like the scales of a dragon. She moved her staff with flourish as she bowed, though she never dropped Alistair’s gaze.

“The king of Ferelden! The Imperium is humbled to be in your presence. I am Magister Tiberia Pio.”

“Welcome, Tiberia,” Alistair shifted in his chair as she resumed her upright position. Something about the way she held herself, the way her body was tensed just enough for him to the muscles in her arms straining, Alistair knew this wasn’t going to be a particularly diplomatic visit. “I must admit I’m a bit surprised to see you here today. I was under the impression that I was meeting with some, er, non-magical diplomats.”

“The plans changed. We felt that this meeting would be more productive if our group were to meet with you instead.”

“Your group being..?”

Her wry smile widened, almost as if she were baring her teeth. “The enlightened few of the Tevinter Imperium. We come seeking aid for our cause.”

Alistair sighed inwardly, fighting the urge to search the room for any sign of Sibyl. Warwick was supposed to have sent for her, what could be holding her up? Was she really angry enough at him to ignore a royal summons? He tried to push aside the anxious ache in his chest so he could focus on dodging the invisible daggers Tiberia was hurling his way. 

“Well, if you’re asking for monetary support, I’m going to need to know a little bit more than just how ‘enlightened’ you are. What is your goal? How would it serve to benefit my kingdom?”

She stalked closer to the throne, causing the guards that surrounded her to move their hands to their swords. “All we desire is to return our great nation to its former glory. To renew our might from the days of Thalasian, when we single-handedly conquered Arlathan from atop the backs of dragons and beasts from the Fade. Our new Tevinter would be a more useful ally than foe, don’t you agree? Ferelden, in the right hands, could prove a worthy alliance.”

“I’ve yet to see how we benefit from watching you enslave more people, only this time from the backs of scary, flying lizards.”

Her face remained as cool as stone, but her tone was now mocking. “And I’ve yet to say that the right hands are your own.” His eyes flashed to meet the bewildered gaze of his advisors where they sat off to the side before snapping back to Tiberia as she added, “Do you know where your queen is, King Alistair?”

He could feel himself growing hot with rage as this woman, in addition to scorning him in his own court, dared to mention Sibyl. “Why did you really come here? Spit it out before I have you removed. With force.”

Tiberia laughed, a dry, crackly noise that suggested her sense of humor was as dark as her coal black stare. Alistair stood as the eyes of the carved dragon in her staff began to glow red with energy, but she made no moves toward him. “Ah, so the great Fereldan dogs do bark on command! Your lot is so dreadfully simple. You make it too easy to spot the mange.”

Alistair clenched his fists, noticing for the first time that Councillor Warwick was not among the worried gaggle of old men watching this verbal barrage. When he placed his hand to the notch in his chair where his sword would have been propped, he felt nothing but wood and cold velvet. Tiberia saw his shock and she smiled at him, then at all of the guards as they unsheathed their swords and assumed a fighting stance.

“Don’t get too hasty, now. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

“Get out!” Alistair snarled, moving forward until he was only a few paces away from Tiberia. 

Tiberia sighed dramatically and turned around with a rustle of her robe. “I would have thought you’d have been a little more curious as to why I brought up your wife. But it seems I’ve been generous with my expectations of your perceptiveness.”

He shook his head, and when he spoke Tiberia paused in her false exit. “I’m not quite the fool you make me out to be, if you think I’m going to believe that you pose any threat to my wife. She’s dealt with worse than the likes of you on her way to actual problems.”

He stood his ground as she whirled around to face him again, her eyes glued to his despite the encroaching line of his soldiers. “She’s let herself go a bit, though, hasn’t she? She keeps making trips to the cupboards when she thinks no one is looking. But someone’s always looking.” 

Alistair could keep neither the neutral expression nor the color on his face as a wave of fear crashed into him. Had Tevinter spies infiltrated their home? But no, she would have never allowed herself to be captured, belly full or not. “These empty threats mean nothing to me.” He wished his voice matched his words.

“We didn’t kill her, of course,” Tiberia continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But we had to bring you something to make sure you took us at our word.” 

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. Alistair flinched as she tossed it onto the ground in front of it as if it were no more than a pouch of copper pieces. The fabric was stained with blood that seeped through and stuck to his fingers as he bent down and gingerly peeled it back. Before him lay a woman’s hand, delicate despite the collection of calluses, wearing a golden band he immediately recognized as Sibyl’s wedding ring. 

He fell to his knees. In the back of his mind, he could see her tortured form, hear her screams as they brought the blade down against her wrist. His breath left him as his vision grew blurry. Somewhere in the distance, one of his advisors leaned over to vomit. 

“We’ll return the rest of her in one piece, provided you give us what we traveled all this way for. The renouncement of your title.”

Alistair’s trembling fingers moved the fabric back in place over Sibyl’s hand as reverently as if it were a funeral shroud. He didn’t trust his legs’ ability to hold him up, so he remained crouched over this bloodied piece of his queen. He could feel the eyes of the entire court upon him, observing him as he wept. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained with quiet fury. “I am the rightful king of Ferelden.” He met her eyes with a strength that made her smirk waver. “I am the son of Maric. The descendent of Calenhad. You will not usurp my throne. You will not take my kingdom. Not as long as I breathe.” He would find and rescue his wife, for he knew she would never forgive him for relinquishing his throne for her. But of course, it wasn’t just his wife’s life that was on the line, and Tiberia knew this as well.

“You’re as brave as they say, I cannot deny that.” She pretended to admire her staff, running her thin fingers along the ebony carvings as she paused. Behind her, beneath the sleeves of her followers, several daggers were unsheathed. At the sound of steel cutting into flesh, her malicious grin returned and her gaze bore into his once again. “What makes blood magic so special, King Alistair, is that it allows a mage to absorb the life force of another being to feed their own. You can gleam a great deal about a person by only a few drops of blood.” Then, as if on cue, she raised her staff in the air and a swirl of red surrounded her, spinning rapidly before shooting off to collide with his guard. Simultaneously, they all dropped to the ground like discarded puppets. Their swords and shields clattered to the ground, on which they laid writhing and groaning grotesquely. 

“When we were, how should I say,  _ purging _ your dear queen,” Tiberia continued, “we felt the presence of another life. Just the faintest stir, as if it were unsure that it was made for this world. So quiet, so weak, that it would take only the smallest pull,” she emphasized the last word as she moved her staff again, this time causing the heads of his advisors to slam into their table. “And it would be silenced, like a thought never uttered aloud. Forgotten.”

Alistair’s head dropped into his hands. “Please,” was all he could manage to whisper.

Tiberia sauntered up to where he knelt and slowly brought herself down to his level. She regarded him with an expression that would have been pitying if not for the cruel twist in her mouth. “What a shame it would be. I know that a child born of two Grey Wardens is rare, nay, nearly impossible. How much is the Ferelden throne worth, really? The life of an innocent? The only child you could ever hope to have?”

Alistair couldn’t remember a time when he had ever felt this numb. He tried to conjure up a thought of Sibyl, tried to imagine what she would say to him right now. But even in the safety of his mind, her eyes were empty and dead. If he were to say no and try to fight his way out of this, even supposing that he survived, he had no way to find her. Dread weighed heavy upon his heart as he slowly raised his head to look at her. How had he gone from having nothing, to having everything, then to having nothing again?

“I’ll do it.”

She smiled and, with a jerk of her staff, brought the heads of his advisors back up from the table. “Are you listening?” she quipped. “Make sure to write this down.” She turned back to Alistair before rising to her feet and bowing ironically. “Pray, go on, my king.”

Beneath his eyelids, he saw the painted faces of his father and brother staring down at him with disappointment in their frozen eyes. All the portraits in the gallery, an endless expanse of his relatives mounted in gold-coated frames, watched him with disdain. Even Sibyl, standing resolutely by his side, regarded her husband with resignation. 

He had failed. His greatest strength was, it turned out, his greatest weakness. He would never regret loving her, but Maker, he wished he had been less obvious about it.

“Your Majesty! Don’t!” an advisor shouted before his head collided back with the table so roughly that Alistair swore he heard a crack.

“Go on!” Tiberia snarled eagerly, her staff flaring only inches from his nose. 

“I must have your word that Sibyl will be safe. Because mark my word, king or not, I will hunt you down and when I find you, you will pray to whatever blighted god you worship that you had never laid eyes on her.”

“Yes, yes, no harm will befall her. My word for yours,” she goaded, her brow furrowing in impatience.

Alistair closed his eyes and took a deep breath. With what little dignity he had left, he would make these next, damning words as steady as he could. 

“I, Alistair Theirin,” with his eyes closed and his hearing impaired by the pounding of blood in his ears, he failed to notice the doors of the throne room creak open. “King of Ferelden, hereby renounce--”

His attention was captured, however, by the sound of a blade slicing clean through the neck of someone in front of him. His eyes shot open at the sound of a gurgling grunt, followed immediately by a thud as the head of a Tevinter woman rolled off to bump the shoulder pad of one of his indisposed guard members.

“Alistair? What in Andraste’s name are you doing?” Sibyl’s voice rang clear as a bell through the hall, and Alistair had to blink a couple times to fully ground himself. “I get locked in the pantry for a few minutes, and I come back to see you giving your crown to the first Venatori blood mages you see.”

Alistair watched the shock flit across Tiberia’s face, her brief loss of composure providing him with ample time to leap up and wrap his hands around her throat. “‘My word for yours?’ You would have taken everything from me!”

Even though his hand was around her throat, it was his voice that sounded strangled. Sibyl had never heard ferocity like this in his voice; if she hadn’t been able to see his lips moving from behind the hooded helms of the mages, she would have thought it was someone else. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade as she wondered what exactly this group had said to him to scare him this badly.

Once the surprise had left her expression, Tiberia was smiling again. She slammed the base of her staff onto the ground and Alistair suddenly lost control of his body. It felt as if his blood was on fire; his limbs were no longer his own as he was forced back down to his knees. It was as if he was underwater, all noise became muffled and unclear while the room sloshed around him in hues of murky red. He could see the faint shape of Sibyl swirling around with her sword as the three remaining mages closed in on her. The red surrounding their frames grew brighter as they manipulated the blood out of their open wounds into a giant, cycling vortex. 

Suddenly, Tiberia’s visage reappeared inches from his own. She grasped his chin and pulled him close enough for her breath to create goosebumps across his skin. 

“Yes, I would have taken everything,” she whispered, “and I still will. Your feelings will be your demise, King Alistair. You’re weak; I didn’t need to fight you to learn that.” She then stood up and, with a snap of her fingers, ordered the other mages to break their vortex, within which Sibyl had been suffocating. The blood abruptly and unceremoniously splattered onto the floor, drenching Sibyl and a few of the hemorrhaging guard members in crimson. 

He tried to push himself to his feet as they began to walk away, but it wasn’t until they had reached the door that her thrall over him was finally broken. “Farewell, Your Majesties. This has been a most productive visit,” Tiberia called over her shoulder before disappearing in a flutter of white capes behind the doors. 

Though she was still gasping, Sibyl immediately rushed over to his side. “Are you alright? What did she do to you?” Her hands were warm and slippery with blood against his cheeks, but there were definitely two of them. He cursed himself for how hard he was trembling. He couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, not with this shame that hunched his shoulders and filled his heart with self-loathing.

“She made a fool out of me. I believed her, and it nearly cost us everything.”

“What do you mean? What did she--” She moved back from him and spotted the bloodied cloth by his knee. She peeled it open and then she understood. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the hand that wore her wedding ring. How had they gotten it? Gingerly, she reached over and slid it off the cold finger and clutched it safely in her palm. Sibyl said nothing as she flung her arms around him and buried her face into his neck. 

Behind them, the remainder of the court stirred to their feet. Grunts and confused mumblings could be heard over the sound of clattering armor and the squelch of blood beneath boots. When Sibyl pulled away, he finally met her eyes and she saw the full extent of his brokenness. He glanced from her to where his advisors were standing, speaking close together in hushed tones. To him, their fear and concern were only thin veils covering their disappointment. No doubt that if they hadn’t taken him seriously before, they certainly wouldn’t now. 

Sibyl seemed to understand this as she read his expression, and with an encouraging smile, stood up and tried to help him to his feet. She was sure he would be better after a bath and a warm cup of tea. With her arm in the crook of his, she guided him out of the room and, although he stood tall and his gait was steady, she knew it wouldn’t take much for him to find himself on the floor again.

As they exited the room and made their way back to their chambers, they were stopped by an exasperated-looking guard. “King Alistair! Queen Sibyl!” he cried out with a hasty bow. “There’s been a murder in the castle! No, two murders! One of them was the councillor, Warwick. You must come, quickly!”

If Alistair had been feeble before, he looked positively green when he saw his oldest councillor laying sprawled in a dark corner near the door to their bedroom. His skin was pallid and completely devoid of warmth, his veins stretching like purple spider webs across his face and hands. 

“It looks like he was… drained,” Sibyl muttered, her mind flashing to the cultists. “Did one break away from the group just to terrorize poor, old Warwick?”

“To stop him from finding you, I would imagine,” Alistair answered solemnly. 

“They got another one, Your Majesty. A servant,” the guard said before leading them towards the pantry inside the great hall. At first glance, the man appeared to be standing, but when they got closer they could see that he had been pinned against the wall with an impressive amount of force. A large knife jutted out from each shoulder while a third stuck out from his throat, effectively holding him in an eternal petrified gasp against the wall next to the pantry door.

“Was he the person who removed the barricade?” Sibyl wondered aloud. For some reason, this man looked familiar to her, and not just because she had seen him working around the castle.

Alistair shook his head as he moved closer to inspect the crime scene. “I doubt it. This is a different killer than the one before. There’s no sign of blood magic.” He trailed a thoughtful finger down the hilt of one blade. “This was the work of a skilled assassin.”

Sibyl folded her arms across her chest, a frown creating creases on her forehead. “Wait, I know this man. He was the one that helped me last night. Why would an assassin target him?”

“Why would an assassin slit his wrists?” Alistair asked, gesturing to the long slice running up the inside of his forearm. “This looks self-inflicted to me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sibyl said with a sigh, beginning to pace behind her husband as she thought. “Unless… unless he was the blood mage that killed Warwick. And barricaded me in.” She pointed at the massive table laying on its side by the door. The stone floor was scuffed where it had apparently been slid back and forth against the pantry door. 

Alistair turned around to stare at Sibyl incredulously. “That was how they knew. They had your blood. He took your blood last night.” He pressed a palm to his forehead to try and steady the world as it started to spin around him. 

“Knew what?” 

“They could tell you were pregnant from your blood. They threatened to…” He trailed off to swallow the rock that had formed in his throat. “I figured Tiberia was lying, but this has to be how they got that information. Oh, Maker.” He moved to grasp Sibyl by her shoulders, fear casting shadows across his face. “There’s no telling how many more of them have already infiltrated us. Friendly assassin or no, we’re not safe here. We must leave. Immediately.”

Sibyl bit down on her lip, a hand reflexively darting up to press against her stomach. “Where will we go?”

“I don’t know, but they won’t get what they’re after. Not you. Not our kingdom. Tiberia already knows my vulnerabilities,” he said with a meaningful glance up and down Sibyl’s figure. 

Sibyl smiled. “But what she views as weakness, I view as strength.”

He mirrored her smile, but the light didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is this the part where you take me to look at my dead father?”

“No,” she replied, “this is the part where we get the hell out of here.”

By the time the sun began its ascent back into the sky, the two -- along with a handful of their most trusted personnel -- were already in a carriage rumbling through the thick heaps of snow that had enshrouded their kingdom overnight. 


	7. The King and the Man

They rode through most of the morning and afternoon, the world rolling by silent and peaceful beneath the first snow of winter. It was a small, simple procession designed to draw little attention. A handful of guards disguised in plainclothes guided the two vessels both at the head and the rear. The first carriage contained three members of the royal council squished together facing the king and queen, who huddled for warmth under a pile of woolen blankets. The second carriage held Bronwen, Alistair’s personal servant, Lloyd, and other members of their staff they could afford to bring without raising suspicion from those outside the castle. Of course, they knew that their greatest concerns came from within.

They had made sure to announce, loudly and multiple times, that they were headed to Redcliffe to seek safety. The Venatori weren’t fools, however, and it was only a matter of time before they realized this to be false and would send forces northward to their true destination: Vigil’s Keep.

The city of Amaranthine was about a two days ride from Denerim, and if their impromptu flight wasn’t ill omen enough, the quality of their travel was deteriorating rapidly. The road in front of them was shrouded with flurries of white that, while aesthetically pleasing, pierced the travellers’ exposed skin like cold, wet needles. Sibyl was bundled under a pile of furs trying to sleep within the crook of Alistair’s arm, but neither the weather nor the constant jolting of the wagon proved helpful in this regard and she remained frustratingly awake. 

The pale face of the moon was watching them from high in the black sky when Sibyl ordered their driver to pull their cart off of the road so that they could set up camp and rest for the night. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the king was in agreement, but Alistair’s loud snore was enough of an answer. The driver let out a whistle sharp enough to cut through the sleet and the small caravan started to exit the highway and trundle through the nearby woods in search of a clearing. 

Sibyl nudged Alistair with her shoulder as their cart rattled to a halt. “Rise and shine, dear.”

He grunted and frowned, blinking away the frost that had accumulated on his long lashes before looking around. “What? Why is it so dark?”

“We pulled off so that we could make camp and settle down for the night,” she explained with a hint of a smile on her lips. She reluctantly threw back the blankets from their legs so that she could stand and stretch. The chill appeared to have settled into her bones; they cracked and popped as she rolled her neck and spine. “Not all of us can sleep as soundly as you,” she added off-handedly as she hopped down onto the moistened soil.

“Can you blame me? Earlier today I nearly played ‘catch the severed wife hand’ with a Tevinter blood mage. It’s been a very, very long day for me,” Alistair quipped as he followed her out of the cart. “I still don’t understand how they stole your ring. Did you stop wearing it?” He was going to pretend that his voice didn’t just crack. 

Sibyl curled her icy fingers around his and pressed a swift kiss to his lips. “Of course not! I had it sent to be polished, but it seems it got intercepted.”

Alistair produced a small smile before turning around to grab their camping materials from the wagon. He was starting to hand Sibyl their sleeping mats when Bronwen appeared at their side.

“Please, allow me to prepare your tent,” she offered.

“That’s kind of you, but setting up camp has, unfortunately, become second nature to us after the Blight,” Sibyl replied politely.

“Oh, yes,” Alistair said through his grunt as he hoisted the tarp and wooden poles over his shoulders. “I’m  _ quite _ used to pitching a tent with this one around.” He flashed a grin as he nudged Sibyl with one end of a pole playfully. Bronwen’s small eyes widened and her cheeks, already flushed from the icy wind, became a vibrant shade of scarlet. 

Sibyl pursed her lips. Of course, the poor girl wouldn’t know how to respond to this. “Feel free to laugh, if you want. I doubt you will, but our king needs the ego boost right now.” Bronwen’s mouth twitched in what would have been a snicker had Alistair not spoken again.

“Hey! As your king, technically, I could command you to laugh.”

“Command my laughter, if you must, but you’ll never get me to actually find you funny.”

Alistair visibly winced. “Oooh, ouch. You’re lucky we’re not at home, or else I’d have you thrown in the dungeon for that,” he replied with a smirk before giving her a covert pat on the butt as he walked behind her over to the campsite.

Bronwen’s eyes were hidden by her drooping hood, but her smile was visible as she shifted the bundle of firewood in her arms and gestured for them to follow him. Dead leaves and frozen grass crunched beneath their shoes as they walked towards the small clearing that was beginning to fill with people and tents. Memories flashed through Sibyl’s mind and, amidst all the talking and clanging of the burgeoning campsite, she could’ve sworn she heard Oghren’s hearty laughter and the singsong lilt of Leliana’s voice. 

Alistair seemed to be right at home. He hummed to himself as he twisted the poles into the ground and brought them to rest against each other for support. Suddenly he was 20 again, chivalrously setting up a tent for he and his new girlfriend to share a few precious moments of peace.

“You’re fortunate to have such a happy marriage,” Bronwen said quietly as Sibyl bent down next to her to help start the fire. 

“Oh, we quibble and fight just like everybody else,” Sibyl sighed, but the smile that spread across her lips was wide. 

Bronwen finished clearing the ground before her small hands began arranging the collection of logs into a neat pile. She must not have spent a lot of time outdoors; Sibyl had to adjust her work discreetly so that flames would actually be able to take shape and spread. In truth, Bronwen was just pleasantly surprised that the queen was kneeling on the ground next to her, helping her with this menial task. 

“I’m sure, milady. I only meant that you speak and laugh with each other as friends do. It is…” she paused, as if unsure how much she should say. “Refreshing.”

Sibyl’s expression turned thoughtful as her gaze flickered over to Alistair. “We were friends first, and that dynamic was the foundation for everything else. I suppose many marriages don’t have that luxury. I wonder how my life might have been different had I never joined the Grey Wardens, if my family had survived. No doubt my marriage would have been arranged by my parents. And, bless him, I don’t think Alistair would have been very high on their lists.”

Bronwen head tilted to the side curiously. “Your parents would not have wanted you to marry the king of Ferelden?”

Sibyl’s mouth quirked upwards wistfully. “He wasn’t the king when I first met him. He wasn’t even a proper heir to the throne. In fact, he would have never sought out the crown if it had not been for Eamon’s encouragement. And mine.” She swallowed as a frown started weighing upon her face. “Sometimes I wonder… I wonder if he…”

“I do not think that he wonders, milady,” Bronwen said, her voice barely audible above the sound of Sibyl striking flint against stone. Though she hadn’t been with the royal family long, she had eyes that soaked up the world around her like sponges and her servant status meant that she spent the majority of her time around them listening rather than speaking.

The flicker of a new flame cast shadows across Sibyl’s resulting smile as she hunched over the tiny fire to try and blow life into it. Bronwen tossed more kindling into the pile of smoldering logs until finally the fire’s blaze was tall enough for it to be self-sustaining. She warmed her hands for a moment before picking up she and Alistair’s sleeping mats and heading over to their newly-erected tent with a nod in Bronwen’s direction. 

Alistair was on his knees securing their tarp with stones as she approached. His eyes warmed her like the fire had as he quickly stood up and bounded to her side. He opened one of the flaps and gestured for her to enter, clearly proud of his creation.

Sibyl couldn’t help but mirror his expression as she spread out their mats and plopped down. “How long has it been since we’ve been inside one of these?”

Alistair hummed thoughtfully. “What, eight years now? I must admit, it’s a little more snug than I remember.”

“Fine by me,” Sibyl said with a coy smirk as she snaked a hand around his neck to pull him closer. Their environment was familiar enough to unearth some of the pleasant feelings of the past, causing their kiss to soften with a blissful ease they hadn’t known in a while. However, when he broke away, Alistair looked weary.

“Is something wrong?” Sibyl asked.

He brushed a hand through her hair, still wet from the frost outside. “It’s just… all so surreal. Not so long ago, I thought that my last image of you was from behind a slamming door, and now here we are. Back where it all began.” His smile was bittersweet. “It makes you wonder if this was where we were meant to be all along.”

This caught her off-guard, though she tried to stifle it. “In a tent on the side of the road?” she offered weakly.

He chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You and the little tyke would certainly have been safer from the Venatori that way.”

“I don’t know about you, but I would rather face Tiberia than one of the bears around here. I’ve heard horror stories.” 

“Ah, I’m sure Edgar could take them on, no problem. Speaking of our favorite, only-a-little-bit-smelly dog, where is he?” Alistair asked suddenly, rising up and crawling over to peak out of the tent’s entrance. 

Sibyl rolled her eyes. And he wondered why Edgar favored her. “Can’t your dainty nose lead us to him?” she muttered.

He pretended like he didn’t hear her as he raised a finger to point him out where he was begging for scraps across the campsite. “He knows he’s got Lloyd wrapped around his little paw, look at him!” 

Edgar was indeed putting on a show, Sibyl noted, as she peeked her head out of the tent to see him on his hind paws pleading with Lloyd for a bite of whatever he was eating. The young man was laughing and talking to Edgar as he ate, eventually relenting and tossing him some scraps before moving to stand around a second fire that their staff had made. The sounds of their voices carried easily through the crisp, night air as those that often worked in silence within the periphery of the king and queen’s vision shared in both feast and story. The fire that she and Bronwen had made looked relatively empty, seating only a handful of advisors and personal guards. 

“They look like they’re having fun,” Alistair observed with a longing glance at the other end of the campsite. “Reminds me a little of old times. But it’s strange,” he added, “I feel like more of an outsider, now. As if I’m staring at them through a window, and it would be rude if I tried to open it. I don’t know.”

Sibyl rubbed a comforting hand across his shoulder. “Then let’s go! They might be a bit surprised, but I doubt they would mind. Fancy titles aside, we’re all sleeping on the same ground tonight.”

Alistair chewed on his lip as he thought, before grinning and exiting the tent. “Well, if they end up hating us, what’s the worst they could do? Other than spit in our food and stab us in our sleep.” He helped her to her feet and waited for her to swipe the grass from her skirt before leading her over. They both sent winning smiles over to Councillor Poindexter, who responded with an incredulous look over the pages of his book. 

Lloyd was too busy telling an animated rendition of his brief stint in the Templar Order to notice Sibyl and Alistair approaching, but the rest of the group quieted down as if they were parents arriving to crash a party.

“--and so it turns out that I had forgotten not only my sword, but also that weird sash thing they make us tie to hold up our skirt. In case you were wondering, no, we don’t wear anything under them, so the sash is an important detail to remember. Of course, when the Grand Cleric took notice of this--oh! Your Majesties!” Lloyd’s tale sputtered to a halt as he noticed where Edgar had bounded off to. He hastily shot up from his position seated on a tree stump so that he could offer it to them. 

Alistair merely shook his head and waved for him to sit back down before inquiring, “Did she whack you across the back of your head and force you to recite the Canticles until you lost feeling in your tongue, or was that just my Grand Cleric?” A few chuckles echoed around the fire, but they were hesitant and uncertain. 

Lloyd was taken aback, but only a moment passed before his mouth cracked open into a grin and he settled back onto his stump. “No, but when someone ‘accidentally’ stepped on my skirt and it found itself on the floor, she didn’t try to hide her amusement. Which now, looking back on it, was somewhat sadistic since I was only twelve at the time.”

Alistair smiled and, feeling a little more comfortable, sat down in the grass beside him. He stretched one leg out in front of him while the other was bent so that he could prop his arm on it in an attempt to appear casual. Sibyl tried to replicate this but, seeing as she actually was wearing a skirt right now, had to resort to awkwardly curving her legs behind her. Maker, she missed the days when she could sport a pair of breeches without apology.

“I was young when I joined the Order, too,” Alistair said with a sigh. “Luckily, it appears we both got out before it was too late.”

A woman who appeared to be about Lloyd’s age piped up from beside him. “Did you get kicked out or something?”

“Margret! That is not how we speak to our king!” Ethel, the gray-haired cook, hissed at the younger woman. Though stern on the surface, she was also their prime suspect for Edgar’s dramatic weight gain over the past few years.

Alistair chuckled and shrugged with one shoulder. “Yes, and no. I have my suspicions I would have been unceremoniously tossed down the monastery steps were it not for that steaming mug of darkspawn blood. Mmm, conscription never tasted so sweet.” Margret giggled in a way that made Sibyl’s nostrils flare.

“Did it hurt? I mean, the Joining and everything,” Lloyd asked, his eyes flickering briefly to Sibyl.

She glanced at Alistair before answering. “To be honest, I don’t remember much of it. I remember my blood felt as if it were boiling, but all my muscles were cold and rigid as stone. I know that I fainted, and the only reason that I knew I was alive was the vivid nightmares.” She shuddered at the memory, before adding off-handedly, “But then I woke up, and I felt almost normal again. Other than an inexplicable craving for tomatoes.”

This caused the worried frowns around the flames to soften, and the conversation continued as everyone got accustomed to their presence. The night darkened the sky above them, but here on the ground Alistair felt bright, and it wasn’t just from the glow of the fire. Edgar had curled up between him and Sibyl and was resting his head in her lap. Her slender fingers stroked along the ridge of his skull and scratched behind his ears while his tail thwacked against Alistair’s leg. Lloyd and Margret had begun singing a jaunty folk song and had even gotten Bronwen to join in. Soon the hushed voices around them amplified into laughter and music that warmed the icy air. 

Sibyl watched in amusement as Alistair’s deep voice chimed in. She remained quiet; her upbringing hadn’t much time for silly songs about picking out the “witches from the wenches.” He sent her a wide grin, crescendoing when the chorus reached a part about fishing a fair maiden out of a pond only to throw her back at the sight of a wart on her nose. She certainly was thankful he had kept this out of his repertoire while they were traveling with Morrigan.

Though she was glad to see him this happy, she realized that he was happier than he had been in a long time. A hollowness cratered its way deep within her stomach as she thought, not for the first time, that she had deprived him of the life he truly wanted. She tried to meet Bronwen’s eye, but she was too deep in conversation with Lloyd to notice Sibyl’s stare. She found herself lost in thought as the noise faded into a dull hum, the clapping and dancing of those around her mere vibrations in the ground. 

Alistair hadn’t noticed his wife’s sudden despondency, he was busy deflecting Margret’s insistences to dance. Some of the younger servants and staff had started dancing to their own songs in a circle that had formed around the fire. 

“Come on, Your Majesty! It’ll help take your mind off things. Unless,” she pouted, “you’ve been sitting on a throne for so long you forgot how.”

A chastising “Margret!” could be heard from Ethel somewhere in the crowd.

Alistair gasped in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know, just last night I was spinning around the great hall like you wouldn’t believe.”

Margret would have rolled her eyes if it weren’t for her status. “That stuff’s not dancing. Not real dancing anyways.”

“What is that I smell?” one of their guards, Dougal, asked with a loud sniff. “A challenge?”

Alistair sighed loudly and the crowd hooted with excitement as he begrudgingly pushed himself to his feet. “At least let me ask my wife first. Sibyl?” he said her name and she snapped her head up to look at him as if she had been dozing. “How do you fancy a little jig around the bonfire? Come on, it’s for the people,” he added with a grin over his shoulder. 

She smiled weakly. “You know, I’m actually pretty tired. I think I’m going to go to bed. Have a good night, everyone,” she called out as she stood up. Those that were paying attention to their exchange hastily stood up and bowed their farewells, as if suddenly remembering their decorum. 

“Aw, I’m sure you would have just cramped my style anyway,” Alistair whined teasingly before turning to Margret. “Now what sort of dance did you have in-- oh!” he cried out in surprise as she grabbed his hands and tugged him into a cluster of people that leapt and danced and clapped to some unheard rhythm. 

What happened next Alistair couldn’t really explain. Perhaps it was the stress of the day, or perhaps someone had spiked their drinking water, but he was not himself. At one point he recalled trying to do a handstand in the center of the crowd before tumbling over into the cool grass. This sort of gathering was unlike anything he had experienced as king, and truthfully, unlike anything he had experienced prior to his coronation either. The energetic whimsy which harbored no space for judgement or embarrassment was as refreshing as a splash of water to the face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hummed, let alone bellowed out a song with no regard for anything but whether or not he was in tune. In this moment, a guilty part of him wished he had finished saying his resignation for Tiberia.

He spun around with Margret until he was dizzy, her laughter high-pitched and steady as the crickets chirping off behind the trees. She was young, probably nearly a decade younger than him, and pretty despite the large gap between her front teeth. Her blonde hair had fallen out of her bonnet and swung around her shoulders, which were a good foot beneath Alistair’s. As she chortled and watched him with her saucer-like blue eyes, he found himself observing the scene as if he were outside his body. Was this how his mother had looked at Maric? Were he and Margret a familiar picture to those around them that had served in the time of his father? 

Disappointment flashed blatant across her face as he abruptly dropped her hands and pulled back. He was forgetting himself. The thought that he resembled his father usually filled him with warmth, not this ache. He held no affection for Margret, but the idea that this was something those around them, or even she herself, could be thinking worried him. While he doubted Maric had ever publicly danced the foxtrot with his mother, they obviously had to be friendly enough to do a different kind of dance, but he didn’t want to think about that. Though he supposed that they didn’t have to be friendly, or even know each other well at all, for him to have been conceived. But Alistair wanted to think about that even less.

For better or worse, he wasn’t his father. 

With a troubled expression, he bade everyone a good night and exited the crowd. Councillor Poindexter’s eyes unearthed from his book when he passed so that they could flash from him to Margret with an unreadable expression. Alistair felt his ears grow warm with embarrassment as he hastened back to the safety of his tent. When he crawled inside, it appeared as if Sibyl were already asleep. How she could do that with all the noise they had been making, he had no clue. Yet when he climbed into his sleeping bag and moved to drape his arm around her waist, she spoke in a voice that was stained with tears.

“Why did you come back? It sounds like the party’s not over.”

He smiled into her hair before deadpanning, “Well, couldn’t keep the ol’ ball-and-chains waiting for too long.”

“Is that what I am to you?” she whispered.

“Sib, it was just a joke. What’s going on?” he asked as he sat up so that he could look down at her. Her face was hidden by both her hair and the darkness, but he could see her hand move up to wipe at her eye.

“If this isn’t what you wanted, you should have never said yes,” Sibyl said hoarsely, referring to him accepting his title.

Alistair, thinking that she was talking about their marriage, was taken aback. “But I did say yes, and I’ll keep saying yes all my life if it means I get to keep waking up with you by my side every morning.”

She rolled over so that she could look up at him with a frown. “It should have never been about me, Alistair. Your decision should have been entirely your own, because you knew in your heart that you were the best fit for the job.”

He made a face. “I should hope that you also think I’m the best fit for the, erm, job. I mean, clearly  _ the job _ ended up being successful,” he trailed off with a glance down at her stomach. “So, yay, I guess? Good job, me. And you.” 

“And if something happens to the baby, what then?”

Alistair shook his head. “I’d be devastated.”

“And if I never have another child?”

“Sib, that would never affect our marriage, or my feelings towards you. But we could always look into other options, if that’s alright with you. It’s not for everyone, you know, raising a child that isn’t yours,” he said, speaking about adoption. “As long as you’re not like Isolde, it should be fine,” he joked. They had never brought it up before, as it was unheard of for a king to resign to the death of his lineage and adopt a child. They usually just fathered bastards if their queen was barren, which was what his step-mother, Isolde, had believed he was when Eamon brought him to live with them, and what Sibyl thought he was implying he should do now.

She was silent for a moment before she rolled back over. She couldn’t look at him. “I wish you hadn’t said yes,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear her. Without the pressures of the court and kingdom for him to continue his lineage, the Alistair she knew would never have suggested this. She was certain of it.

Alistair visibly shrunk away. “How can you say that?” He tried to pull her back around by her shoulder, but she remained resolutely on her side. “Sib?” She was too proud to cry in front of him, but he felt her shoulder shake within his grasp. Defeated, he moved away from her and curled up beneath his blankets. There was more to marriage than just having children, he thought. Anyone could have children -- he was the product of that -- but a love that was undemanding, undying,  _ that _ was hard to find. He had always thought they had shared an equal partnership, but now he wondered how long she had been pulling away, unentangling herself from the roots he thought their marriage had spread deep into the ground. 

Not for the first time in his life, Alistair felt like a fool.


End file.
